
Pass, PR-^QS.fe> 



Book 






THE 



COMPLETE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



FIRST AMERICAN EDITION 



ONE VOLUME. 




PHILADELPHIA : CAREY <^' LEA. 
1832. 

("N 






BOSTON: 

PllINTED BV KANE 4c C< 
127 WasliinRlon Slreet. 



NOTE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 

. .IS is Ihe only editiou of Miss Baillie's works, which contains all her poetical writings. The Author herself 
has been consulted, through the kindness of a Friend, — and considerable pains have been taken to render this 
compilation uniform and complete. It includes the following articles not found in any previous collection of her 
poems : — ' The Martyr, A Drama,' — ' The Bride, A Drama,' — ' A November Night's Traveller,' — ' Sir Maurice, A 
Ballad,' — ' Address to a Steam Vessel,' — 'To Mrs. Siddons,' — 'A Volunteer Song,' — 'To a Child.' — An alteration 
of the tragedy of ' Rayner,' now first published from the manuscript of the Author, is likewise contained in this 
volume. 

The Publishers are gratified, in being thus enabled to fuinish a full collection of the various poetical writings, of 
an Author, so long known by her brilliant talents, and so highly esteemed for her moral purity and domes! ic 
worth. 

The utnio'l care has been taken to follow the Author's orthography, (hi oiigboul this volume. 



" the notes that run^ 

P'roiu the wild harp, whicli silent hung 
By silver Avon's holy shore, 
Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er j 
When she, the bold enchantress, came, 
With fearless hand, and heart on flame I 
From the pale willow snatched the treasure, 
And swept it with a kindred measure. 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Monfort's hate and Basil's love. 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deemed their own Shakspearo lived again. " 

Srn Waltek Scott. 



INDEX. 



Introductory Discourse --------9 

PLAYS. 

Basil, A Tragedy 27 

The Tryal, A Comedy 58 

De Monfort, A Tragedy 85 

The Election, A Comedy 113 

Ethwald, A Tragedy _ _ , 141 

The Second Marriage, A Comedy ..._.. 097 

Advertisement to the Second Edition - - - - - 237 

To the Reader 239 

Rayner, A Tragedy 243 

Alterations in the Tragedy of Rayner 271 

The Country Inn, A Comedy - - - - - - - 273 

Constantino Paleologus, A Tragedy - - - . . . 290 

Orra, A Tragedy 342 

The Dream, A Tragedy 367 

The Siege, A Comedy 384 

The Beacon, A Serious Musical Drama 407 

The Bride, A Drama • . 421 

Preface to the Martyr 439 

The Martyr, A Drama 443 

Note 459 

To the Reader 460 

Family Legend ....... 4(52 

" " Epilogue. By Henry Mackenzie Esq. - - - 489 



METRICAL LEGENDS. 

Preface to William Wallace 493 

William Wallace 499 

Notes 511 

I Christopher Columbus 522 

Notes 531 

Lady Griseld Baillie 537 

Notes 543 

Appendix 547 

FUGITIVE PIECES. 

Lord John of the East 557 

Malcom's Heir - - - 558 

Note 560 

The Elden Tree - - 561 

The Ghost of Fadon - 563 

Note 564 

A November Night's Traveller 567 

Sir Maurice, A Ballad 569 

Address to a Steam- Vessel 571 

To Mrs. Siddons 573 

A Volunteer Song 573 

To A Child 574 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



It is natural for a writer, who is about to 
submit his works to the Public, to feel a 
strong inclination, by sonic Preliminary Ad- 
dress, to conciliate the favor of his reader, and 
dispose him, if possible, to peruse them with 
a favorable eye. I am well aware, however, 
that his endeavors are generally fruitless : in 
his situation our hearts revolt from all appear- 
ance of confidence, and we consider his ditH- 
dcnce as hypocrisy. Our own word is fre- 
quently taken for what we say of ourselves, 
but very rarely for what we say of our works. 
Were the three plays which this small volume 
contains, detached pieces only, and unconnect- 
ed with others that do not yet appear, 1 should 
have suppressed this inclination altogether ; 
and have allowed my reader to begin what is 
before him and to form what opinion of it his 
taste or his humor might direct, Avithout any 
previous trespass upon his time or his patience, 
but they are part of an extensive design : of 
one which, as far as my information goes, 
has nothing exactly similar to it in any lan- 
guage : of one which a whole life's time will 
be limited enough to accomplish ; and which 
has, therefore, a considerable chance of being 
cut short by that hand which nothing can 
resist. 

Before I explain the plan of this work, I 
must make a demand upon the patience of my 
reader, whilst I endeavour to communicate to 
him those ideas regarding human nature, as 
they in some degree affect almost every 
species of moral writings, but particularly the 
Dramatic, that induced me to attempt it; 
and, as far as my judgment enabled me to 
apply them, has directed me in the execution 
of it. 

From that strong sympathy which most 
creatures, but the human above all. feel for 
others of their kind, nothing has become so 
much an object of man's curiosity as man 
himself. We are all conscious of this within 
ourselves, and so constantly do we meet with 
it in others, that, like every circumstance of 
continually repeated occurrence, it thereby 
escapes observation. Every person who is 
not deficient in intellect, is more or less occu- 
pied in tracing amongst the individuals he 
converses with, the varieties of understanding 
and temper which constitute the characters 
of men ; and receives great pleasure from 
every stroke of nature that points out to him 
those varieties. This is. much more than we 
are aware of, the occupation of children, and 
of grown people also, whose penetration is but 
lightly esteemed ; and that conversation 
which degenerates with them into trivial and 
mischievous tattling, takes its rise not unfre- 
1 



quently from the same source that supplies 
the rich vein of the satirist and the wit. That 
eagerness so universally shown for the con- 
versation of the latter, plainly enough indi- 
cates how many people have been occupied 
in the same way with themselves. Let any 
one, in a large company, do or say what is 
strongly expressive of his peculiar character, 
or of some passion or humor of the moment, 
and it will be detected by almost every person 
present. How often may we see a very 
stupid countenance animated with a smile, 
wlien the learned and the wise have betrayed 
some native ll'ature of their own minds ! and 
how often will this be the case when they 
have supposed it to be concealed under a very 
sufficient disguise I From this constant em- 
ployment of their minds, most people, I 
believe, without being conscious of it, have 
stored uj) in idea the grctater part of those 
strong marked varieties of human character, 
which may be said to divide it into classes; 
and in one of those classes they involuntarily 
place every new person they become ac- 
quainted with. 

I will readily allow that the dress and 
the manners of men, rather than their charac- 
ters and dispositions, are the subjects of our 
common conversation, and seem chiefly t& 
occupy the multitude. But let it be remem- 
bered that it is much easier to express our 
observations upon these. It is easier to 
communicate to another how a man wears his 
wig and cane, what kind of house he inhabits, 
and what kind of table he keeps, than from 
what slight traits in his words and actions we 
have been led to conceive certain impressions 
of his character: traits that will often escape 
the memory, when the opinions that were 
founded u[)on tlicm remain. Besides, in 
communicating our ideas of the characters of 
otJiers, we are often called upon to support 
thein with more expence of reasoning than 
we can well afford ; but our observations on 
the dress and appearance of men seldom 
involve us in such difficulties. For these, 
and other reasons too tedious to mention, the 
generality of people appear to us more trifling 
than they are : and I may venture to say, 
that, but for this sympathetic curiosity to- 
wards others of our kind which is so strongly 
implanted within us, the attention we pay to 
the dress and manners of men would dwindle 
into an employment as insipid, as examining 
the varieties of plants and minerals, is to one 
who understands not natural history. 

In our ordinary intercourse with society, 
this sympathetic propensity of our minds is 
exercised upon men under the common oc- 



10 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



currences of life, in which we liave often 
obsorvpcl them. Here, vanity and woaknesf? 
put themselves forward to view, more con- 
spicuously than the virtues ; here, men en- 
counter those smaller trials, from which tliey 
are not apt to come oft' victorioiis ; and liere, 
consequently, that which is marked with the 
whimsical and ludicrous v/ill strike us most 
forcibly, and make t!ie strongest impression 
on our memory. To this sympathetic pro- 
pensity oi'our minds, so exercised, the genuine 
and pure comic of every composition, wheth- 
er drainn, fable, story, or satire, is addressed. 
If man is an object of so mucli attention to 
man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences of 
life, how much more does he excite his 
curiosity and interest, when placed in extraor- 
dinary situations of difficulty and distress ? It 
cannot be any pleasure we receive from the 
sufferings of a fellow-creature v;hich attracts 
such nmltitudes of people to a public e.v- 
ocution, though it is the horror we conceive 
for such a spectacle that keeps so many more 
away. To see a human being bearing him- 
self up under such circumstances, or strug- 
gling with the terrible apprehensions v/hich 
Biich a situation impresses, must be the 
powerful incentive, that makes us press 
forward to beliold what we shrink from, and 
wait with trembling expectation for what we 
dread." For tliough few at such a spectacle 
can get near enough to distinguish the ex- 
pression of face, or the minuter parts of a 
criminal's behaviour, yet from a considerable 
distance will they eagerly mark vidiethcr he 
steps firmly ; whether the motions of his 
body denote agitation or calmness ; and if the 
wind docs but raffle his garment, they will, 
even from that change upon the outline of his 
distant figure, read some expression connected 
with his dreadful situation. Though tliere is 
a greater proportion of people in whom this 
strong curiosity will be overcome by other 
dispositions and motives ; though there are 
many more wlio will stay away from such a 
siglit than will go to it ; 3'et there are very 
few who will npt bo eager to converse with a 
person who iias beheld it; and to learn, very 
jninutely, every circumstance connected with 
it, except tlie very act itself of inflicting 
death. To lift up the roof of his dungeon, 
like the Diabic Boitcur, and look upon a 
criminal the night before he suffers, in his 
still hours of privacy, when all tliat disguise 
is removed which is imposed by respect for 
the opinion of others, the strong motive by 



* In confirmation of tliis opinion I niay veaturc 
to say, that of the great numbers who go to see a 
public execution, tliere are but very few who 
would not run away fi-om, and avoid it, if they 
happened to meet with it unexpectedly. We 
find people stopping to look at a procession, or 
any other uiiconimon sight, they may have fdlcn 
ill witli accidentally, but almost never an execu- 
tion. No one giies there who liis not made up 
his mind for the occasion; which would not be 
the case, if .-in'' n:itiir:il love of cruelty were the 
cause of such assemblies. 



which even the lowest and wickedest of men 
still continue to be actuated, would present 
an object to the mind of every person, not 
withheld from it bj' great timidity of character, 
more powerfully attractivi- than almost any 
other. 

Revenge, no doubt, first began amongst the 
savages of y\inerica that dreadful custom of 
sacrificing their prisoners of war. But the 
perpetration of such hideous cruelty could 
never have become a permanent national 
custom, but for this universal desire in the 
human mind to behold man in every situation, 
putting forth his strengtls against the current 
of adversity, scorning all bodily anguish, or 
struggling witli tliose feelings of nature, 
which, Hive a beating stream, will oil times 
burst througii the artificial barriers of pride. 
Before they begin those terrible rites they 
treat their prisoners kindly ; and it cannot he 
supposed that men, alternately enemies and 
friends to so many neighboring tribes, in 
manners and appearance like themselves, 
should so strongly be actuated by a spirit of 
public revenge. This custom, therefore, 
must be considered as a grand and terrible 
game, which every tribe plays against anoth- 
er ; where they try not the strength of the 
arm, the swiilness of the feet, nor the 
acutcness of the ej'o. but the fortitude of the 
soul. Considered in this light, the excess of 
cruelty exercised upon their miserable victim, 
in which every liand is described as ready to 
inflict its portion of pain, and every head 
ingenious in the contrivance of it, is no longer 
to be wondered at. To put into his measure 
of misery one agony less, would be, in some 
degree, betraying the honor of their nation., 
would be doing a species of injustice to every 
hero of tjieir own tribe who had already sus- 
tained it, and to those who might be called 
upon to do so ; amongst whom each of these 
savage tormentors has his chance of being 
one, and has prepared himself for it from his 
childhood. Nay, it would be a species of 
injustice to the hau.ghty victim himself, who 
would scorn to purchase his place amongst 
the heroes of his nation, at an easier price 
than Ills undaunted predecessors. 

Amongst the many trials to which the 
hnman mind is subjected, that of holding 
intercourse, real or imaginary, with the world 
of spirits; of finding itself alone with a being 
terrific and awful, whose nature and power 
are unknown, hvas been justly considered as 
one of tlie most severe. The workings of 
nature in this situation, we all know, have 
ever been tlie object of our most eager 
inquiry. No man wishes to see the Ghost 
himself, which would certainly i)rocure him 
the best information on the subject, but every 
man wishes to see one who believes that he 
sees it. in all the agitation and wildness of 
that species of terror. To gratify this curiosi- 
ty how many people have dressed up hideous 
a[)paritions to frighten the timid and super- 
stitious ! and have done it at the risk of 
destroying their happiness or understanding 
f)r ever. For the instances of intellect beintj 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



11 



destroyed by tliis kind of trial are more 
numerous, perhaps, in proportion to the fev/ 
wJio have undergone it, than by any other. 

How sensible are we of this strong propen- 
sity within us, when we behold any person 
under the pressure of great and unconnnon 
calamity ! Delicacy and respect for the af- 
flicted will, indeed, make us turn ourselves 
aside ft-oin observing him, and cast down our 
eyes in his presence ; bvit the first glance we 
direct to him will involuntarily be one of the 
keenest observation, how hastily soever it 
may be checked ; and often will a returning 
look af inquiry mix itself by stealth with our 
sympathy and reserve. 

But it is not in situations of difF.culty and 
distress alone, that man becomes the object of 
this sympathetic curiosity : he is no less so 
when the evil he contends v/itli arises in his 
own breast, and no outward circumstance 
connected with him either awakens our atten- 
tion or our pity. What human creature is 
there, who can behold a being like himself 
under the violent agitation of those passions 
which all have, in some degree, experienced, 
without feeling himself most powerfully ex- 
cited by the sight.' I say, all have experi- 
enced : for the bravest man on earth knows 
what fear is as well as the coward ; and will 
not refuse to be interested for one under the 
dominion of this passion, provided there be 
nothing in the circumstances attending it to 
create contempt. Anger is a passion that at- 
tracts less sympathy tlian any other, yet the 
unpleasing and distorted features of an angry 
man will be more eagerly gazed upon, by 
those v/ho are no wise concerned v/ith his fu- 
ry or the objects of it, than the most amiable 
placid countenance in the world. Every eye 
is directed to him ; every voice hushed to si- 
lence in his presence : even children v/ill leave 
off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after 
liim more eagerly than the gaudiest equipage. 
Tiie wild tossings of despair : the gnashing of 
hatred and revenge ; the yearnings of affec- 
tion, and the softened rnien of love ; all the 
language of the agitated soul, wliicii every 
age and nation understand, is never addressed 
to the dull or inattentive. 

It is not merely under the violent agita- 
tions of passion, tliat man so rouses and in- 
terests us ; even the smallest indications of an 
unquiet mind, the restless e3'e, the muttermg 
lip, the half-checked exclamation, and the 
hasty start, will set our attention as anxiously 
upon the watch, as the first distant flashes of 
a gathering storm. V/hen some great explo- 
sion of passion bursts forth, and some conse- 
quent catastrophe happens, if we arc at all 
acquamted with the unhappy perpetrator, how 
minutely shall we endeavour to remember ev- 
ery circumstance of his past behaviour i and 
with wJiat avidity shall we seize upon eve- 
ry recollected v/ord or gesture, that is in 
tlie smallest degree indicative of the supposed 
state of his mind, at the time when they 
took jjlace. If we are not acquainted with 
him, how eagerly shall we listen to similar 
recollections from another ! Let us under- 



stand, from observation or report, that any 
person harbours in his breast, concealed frem 
the world's eye. some powerful rankling pas- 
sion of what kind soever it may be, we shall 
observe every word, every motion, every 
look, even the distant gait of such a man, 
with a constancy and attention bestowed upon 
no other. Nay, should we meet him unex- 
pectedly on our way, a feeling will pass 
across our minds as though we found our- 
selves in the neighborhood of seme secret and 
fearful tiling. If invisible, would we not fol- 
low him hito his lonely haunts, into his closet, 
into the midnight silence of his chamber .' 
There is, perhaps, no employment which the 
human mind will with so nmch avidity pur 
sue, as the discovery of concealed passion, as 
the tracing the varieties and progress of a per- 
turbed soul. 

It is to this sympathetic curiosity of our 
nature, exercised upon mankind in great and 
trying occasions, and under the influence of 
the stronger passions, Vi'hen the grand, the 
generous, and the terrible attract our atten- 
tion far more than the base and depraved, that 
the high and powerfully tragic, of every com- 
position, is addressed. 

This propensity is universal. Children 
begin to shov/ it very early ; it enters into 
many of their amusements, and that part of 
them too, for which they show tlie keenest 
relish. It oftentimes tempts them, as well as 
the mature in years, to be guilty of tricks, 
vexations and cruelty; yet Gon Almighty 
has implanted it within us, as well as all our 
other propensities and passions, for wise and 
good purposes. It is our best and most pow- 
erful mstructor. From it we are taught the 
proprieties and decencies cf ordinary life, and 
are prepared for distressing and difficult situ- 
ations. In examining others we know our- 
selves. With limbs untorn, with head un- 
smitten, with senses unimpaired by despair, 
we know what we ourselves might have been 
on the rack, on the scaffold, and in the most 
afflicting circumstances of distress. Unless 
when accompanied with passions of the dark 
and malevolent kind, we cannot well exercise 
this disposition without becoming more just, 
more merciful, more compassionate ; and as 
the dark and malevolent )/assions are not the 
predominant inmates of the hvunan breast, it 
hath produced more deeds — O many more ! of 
kindness than of cruelty. It holds up for 
our example a standard of excellence, which, 
without its assistance, our inward conscious- 
ness of what is right and becoming might 
never have dictated. It teaches us, also, to 
respect ourselves, and our kind ; for it is a 
poor mind, indeed, that from this employment 
of its faculties, learns not to dwell upon the 
noble view of human nature rather than the 
mean. 

Universal, however, as this disposition un- 
doubtedly is, with the generality of mankind 
it occupies itself in a passing and superficial 
way. Though a native trait of character or 
of passion is obvious to them as well as to the 
sage, yet to their minds it is but the visitor of 



12 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



a nioincnt; they look upon it, singly and un- 
connectod : and though this disposifioii, even 
so exorcised, brings instruction as well as 
anuisement, it is chiefly by storing up in their 
minds those ideas to which tlie instructions 
of others refer, tiiat it can be eminently use- 
ful. Those who reflect and reason upon 
what human nature holds out to their obser- 
vation, are comparatively but few. No stroke 
of nature whicli engages their attention 
stands insulated and alone. Each presents 
itself to them with many varied connections; 
and they comprehend not merely the imme- 
diate feeling which gave rise to it, but the re- 
lation of tiiat feeling to others which are con- 
cealed. We wonder at the changes and ca- 
prices of men ; they see in them nothing but 
what is natural and accountable. We stare 
upon some dark catastrophe of jiassion, as the 
Indians did upon an eclipse of the moon ; 
they, conceiving the track of ideas through 
wliicii the impassioned mind has passed, re- 
gard it like the j)hilosopher wlio foretold the 
phenomenon. Knowing what situation of 
life he is about to be thrown into, they per- 
ceive in the man, wlio, like Hazael, says, "Is 
thy servant a dog, that he should do this 
thing.'" the foul and fi-rocious murderer. A 
man of this contemplative character partakes, 
in some degree, of the entertainment of the 
Gods, who were supposed to look down upon 
this world and the inhabitants of it, as we do 
upon a theatrical exhibition; and if he is of 
a benevolent disposition, a good man strug- 
gling with, and triumphing over adversity, 
will be to him, also, the most deliglitful spec- 
tacle. But though this eagerness to observe 
their fellow-creatures in every situation, 
leads not the generality of mankind to reason 
and reflect ; and those strokes of nature 
which they arc so ready to remark, stand sin- 
gle and unconnected in their minds, j'et tliey 
may be easily induced to do both ; and there 
is no mode of instruction which they will so 
eagerly pursue, as that which lays open be- 
fore them, in a more enlarged and connected 
view tlian their individual observations are 
capable of supplying — tlie varieties of the hu- 
man mind. Above all, to be well exercised 
in this study will fit a man more particularly 
for tlie most important situations of life. He 
will prove for it the better Judge, the better 
Magistrate, the better Advocate; and as a 
ruler or conductor of other men, under every 
occurring circumstance, he will find himself 
the better enabled to fulfil his duty, and ac- 
complish his designs. He will perceive the 
natural effect of every order tliat he issues 
upon the minds of his soldiers, his subjects, or 
his followers: and he will deal to others 
judgment tempered with uKU-cy; that is to 
say, truly just; for justice appears to us se- 
vere only when it is imperfect. 

In proportion as moral writers of every 
class have exercised within themselves this 
sympathetic ])ropensity of our nature, and 
have attended to it in otiiers. their works 
have been interesting and instructive. They 
have struck ,the imagination more forciblv. 



convinced the understanding more clearly, 
and more lastingly impressed the memory. 
If unseasoned with any reference to this, the 
fairy bowers of the poet, with all his gay im- 
ages of delight, will be admired and forgot- 
ten ; the important relations of the historian, 
and even the reasonings of tlie philosojjher, 
will make a less permanent impression. 

The historian points back to the men of 
other ages, and from the gradually cleaying 
mist in which tliey are first discovered, like 
the mountains of a far distant land, the gen- 
erations of the world are displayed to our 
mind's eye in grand and regular procession. 
But the transactions of men become interest- 
ing to us only as we are made acquainted 
with men themselves. Great and bloody 
battles are to us battles fought in the moon, 
if it is not impressed upon our minds, by 
some circumstances attending them, that 
men subject to like weaknesses and passions 
with ourselves, were the combatants.* The 
establishments of policy make little impres- 
sion upon us, if we are left ignorant of the 
beings whom tliey affected. Even a very 
masterly drawn character will but slightly 
imprint upon our memory the great man it 
belongs to, if, in the account we receive of 
his life, those lesser circumstances are entire- 
ly neglected, which do best of all point out to 
us the dispositions and tempers of men. 
Some slight circumstance characteristic of 
the particular turn of a man's mind, which 
at first sight seems but little connected with 
the great events of his life, will often explain 



* Let two great battles be described to us with 
all the force and clearness of the most able pen. 
In the first let the most admirable exertions of 
military skill in tlie Cleiieral, and the most un- 
shaken courage in the soldiers, gain over an equal 
or superior number of brave opponents a com- 
plete and glorious victory. In the second let the 
General be less scientific, and the soldiers less 
dauntless. Let them go into the field for a cause 
tliat is dear to them, and fight with the ardor 
which such a motive inspires , till discouraged 
with the many deaths around them, and the ren- 
ovated pressure of the foe, some unlooked-for 
circumstance, trilling in itself, strikes their imag- 
ination at once : they are visited with the ter- 
ors of nature ; their national pride, the honor 
of soldiership is forgotten ; they fly like a fearful 
flock. Let some beloved chief then step forth, 
and call upon them by the love of their country, 
by the memory of their valiant fathers, by every 
thing that kindles in the bosom of man the high 
and generous passions : they gathered round him : 
and goaded by shame and indignation, returning 
again to the charge, with the fury of wild beasts 
rather than the courage of soldiers, bear down 
every thing before them. Which of these two 
battles will interest us the most? and which of 
them shall we remember the longest '! The one 
will stand forth in the imagination of the reader 
like a rock of the desert, which points out to the 
far-removed traveller the country through which 
he has passed, when its lesser objects arc ob- 
scured in the di.stance ; whilst the other leaves 
no traces behind it, but in the minds of the scien- 
tific in war. 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



IS 



some of tliose events more clearly to our un- 
derstanding, than the minute details of osten- 
sible policy. A judicious selection of tliose 
circumstances which characterize the spirit 
of an associated mob. paltry and ludicrous as 
some of them may appear, will oftentimes 
convey to our minds a clearer idea why cer- 
tain laws and privileges were demanded and 
agreed to, than a methodical explanation of 
their causes. An historian who has examin- 
ed human nature himself, and likewise at- 
tends to the pleasure which developing and 
tracing it does ever convey to others, will 
employ our understanding as well as our 
memory with his pages ; and if this is not 
done, he will impose upon the latter a very 
difficult task, in retaining what she is con- 
cerned with alone. 

In argumentative and philosophical wri- 
tings, the effect which the author's reasoning 
produces on our minds depends not entirely 
on the justness of it. The images and exam- 
ples that he calls to his aid to explain and il- 
lustrate his meaning, will very much affl'ct 
the attention we are able to bestow upon it. 
and consequently the quickness with which 
we shall apprehend, and the force with which 
it will impress us. These are selected from 
animated and unanimated nature, from the 
liabits, manners, and characters of men ; and 
though that image or example, whatever it 
may be in itself, wliich brings out his mean- 
ing most clearly, ought to be preferred before 
every other, yet of two equal in this respect, 
that which is drawn from the most interesting- 
source will please us the most at the time, 
and most lastingly take hold of our minds. 
An argument supported with vivid and inter- 
esting illustration will long be remembered 
when many equally important and clear are 
forgotten ; and a work where many such oc- 
cur, will be held in higher estimation by the 
generality of men, than one, its superior, 
perhaps, in acutencss, perspicuity, and good 
sense. 

Our desire to know what men are in the 
closet as well as in tlie field, by the blazing 
hearth and at the social board, as well as in 
the council and the throne, is very imperfect- 
ly gratified by real history; romance writers, 
therefore, stepped boldly forth to supply the 
deficiency ; and tale writers and novel writers, 
of many descriptions, followed after. If they 
liave not been very skilful in their delinea- 
tions of nature; if they have represented men 
and women speaking and acting as men and 
women never did speak or act; if they have 
caricatured both our virtues and our vices ; 
if they have given us such pure and unmix- 
ed, or such heterogeneous combinations of 
character as real life never presented, and yet 
have pleased and interested us, let it not be 
imputed to the dulness of man in discerning 
what is genuinely natural in himself. There 
are many inclinations belonging to us, besides 
this great master-propensity of which I am 
treating. Our love of the grand, the beauti- 
ful, the novel, and above all of the marvel- 
lous, is very strong; and if we are richly fed 



with what we have a good relish for, we may 
be weaned to forget our native and favounite- 
aliment. Yet we can never so far forget it, 
but that we shall cling to, and acknowledge 
it again, whenever it is presented before us. 
In a work abounding with the marvellous- 
and unnatm-al, if the author has any how 
stumbled upon an unsophisticated genuine 
stroke of nature, we shall iimnediately per- 
ceive and be delighted with it, though we are 
foolish enough to adniixe, at the same time, 
all the nonsense with which it is surrounded.. 
After all the wonderful incidents, dark mys- 
teries, and secrets revealed, which eventful 
novel so liberally presents to us; after the 
beautiful fairy ground, and even the grand 
and sublime scenes of nature with whicji de- 
scriptive novel so often enchants vzs; those 
works which most strongly characterize hur- 
man nature in the middling and lower classes 
of society, where it is to be discovered by 
stronger and more unequivocal marks, will 
ever be the most popular. For though great 
pains have been taken in our higher senti- 
mental novels to interest us in the delicacies^ 
embarrassments, and artificial distresses of 
tlie more refined part of society, tliey have- 
never been able to cope in the public opin- 
ion with these. The one is a dressed and 
beautiful pleasure ground, in which we are 
enclianted for a while, amongst the delicate 
and unknown plants of artful cultivation: 
the other is a rough forest of our native land;, 
the oak, the elm, the hazel, and the bramble 
are tliere; and amidst the endless varieties, 
of its paths we can wander forever. Inta 
whatever scenes the novelist may conduct 
us, what objects soever he may present to. 
our view, still is our attention most sensibly 
awake to every touch faithful to nature ; still 
are we upon the watch for everything tliat 
speaks to us of ourselves. 

The fair field of what is properly called 
poetry, is enriched with so many beauties, 
that in it we are often tempted to forget what 
we really are, and what kind of beings we 
belong to. Who in the enchanted regions of 
simile, metaphor, allegory, and description, 
can remember tlie plain order of tilings in 
this every-day world ? From heroes whose 
majestic forms rise like a lofty tower, whose 
eyes are lightning, whose arms are irresistible, 
whose course is like the storms of heaven, 
bold and exalted sentiments we shall readily 
receive ; and shall not examine them very 
accurately by that rule of nature which our 
own breast prescribes to us. A shepherd, 
whose sheep, with fleeces of purest snow, 
browze the flowery herbage of the most beau- 
tiful vallies; whose flute is ever melodious, 
and whose shepherdess is ever crowned with 
roses; whose every care is love, will not be 
called very strictly to account for the lofti- 
ness and refinement of his thoughts. The 
fair Nymph who sighs out her sorrows to the 
conscious and compassionate wilds ; whose 
eyes gleam like the bright drops of heaven ; 
whose loose tresses stream to the breeze, may 
say what she pleases with impunity. I wiU 



14 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



vcnturo, however, to saj', that amidst all this 
decoration and ornament, all this lol'tiness 
and reJinement, let one simple trait ol'the hu- 
man heart, one expression of passion genuine 
and true to nature, be introduced, -and it will 
stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, 
whilst tlie false and nnnatural around it, fade 
away upon every side, like the rising exhala- 
tions of the morning. With admiration, and 
often with enthusiasm, we proceed on our 
way througli the grand and the beautiful im- 
ages, raised to onr imagination by tiie lofty 
epic muse: but what, oven liere, are those 
things that strike upon tlie heart ; tliat we 
feel and remember ? Neither the descriptions 
of war, the sound of the trumpet, the clang- 
ing of arms, the combat of heroes, nor the 
death of the mighty, will interest our minds 
like the fall of the feeble stranger, who sim- 
ply expresses the anguish of his soul, at the 
thoughts of that far-distant home which he 
must never return to again, and closes his 
eyes amongst the ignoble and forgotten ; like 
the timid stripling goaded by the shame of 
reproach, v/ho urges his trembling steps to 
the fight, and falls like a tender llower be- 
fore the first blast of winter. Hov.' often v/ill 
some simple pictures of this kind be all that 
remains upon our minds of the terrific and 
magnificent battle, whose description we have 
read with admiration ^ How comes it that 
Ave relish so much the episodes of an heroic 
jpoem.' It cannot merely be that we are 
pleased with a resting place v/licre we enjoy 
the variety of contrast ; for were the poem 
of the simple and familiar kind, and an epi- 
sode after the heroic style introduced into it, 
ninety readers out of a hundred would pass 
over it altogether. It is not tliat we meet 
sucli a story, so situated, with a kind of sym- 
pathetic good will, as in passing tlirough a 
country of castles and of palaces, we should 
pop uuav.'ares upon some humble cottage, 
resembling the dwellings of our own native 
land, and gaze upon it with affection. The 
highest pleasures we receive from poetry, as 
well as from the real objects which surround 
us in the world, are derived from the sympa- 
thetic interest we all take in beings like 
ourselves : and I vi?ill even venture to say, 
that were the grandest scenes which can en- 
ter into the imagination of man, presented to 
our view, and all reference to man completely 
shut out from our thoughts, the objects that 
composed it would convey to our minds little 
better than dry ideas of magnitude, color, and 
form ; and the remembrance of them would 
Test upon our minds like the measurement 
and distances of the planets. 

If the study of human nature then, is so 
useful to tlie poet, the novelist, the historian, 
and the philosopher, of how much greater im- 
portance must it be to t!ie dramatic writer .'' 
To them it is a powerful auxiliary, to him it 
is the centn; and strength of tlie battle. If 
characteristic views of human n.ature enliven 
not their pages, there are many excellencies 
with which they can, in some degree, make 
lip for the deficiency : it is what wc receive 



from them with pleasure rather than demand. 
But in his works, no richness of invention, 
harmony of language, nor grandeur of senti- 
ment will supplv tile place of faithfully delin- 
eated nature. The poet and the novelist may 
represent to you their great characters from 
the cradle to the tomb. They may represent 
them in any mood or temper, and under the 
influence of any passion which they see prop- 
er, without being obliged to put words into 
their mouths, those great betrayers of the 
feigned and adopted. They may relate every 
circumstance, hov.'cver trifling and minute, 
that serves to develope their tempers and dis- 
positions. They tell us what kind of people 
they intend their men and women to be, and 
as such we receive them. If they are to 
move us with any scene of distress, every 
circumstance regarding the parties concerned 
in it, how they looked, how they moved, liow 
they sighed, how the tears guslied from their 
eyes, how the very light and shadow fell upon 
them, is carefully described ; and the few 
things tliat are given them to say along with 
all this assistance, must be very unnatural in- 
deed if we refuse to sympathize with them. 
But the characters of the drama must speak 
directly for themselves. Under the influence 
of every passion, humor, and impression ; 
in the artificial veilings of hypocrisy and cer- 
emony, in the openness of freedom and con- 
fidence, and in the lonely hour of meditation 
they speak. He who made us hath placed 
within our breasts a judge that judges instan- 
taneously of every thing they say. We ex- 
pect to find them creatures like ourselves ; 
and if they are untrue to nature, we feel that 
we are imposed upon. 

As in other works deficiency in character- 
istic truth may be compensated by excellen- 
cies of a different kind, in the drama, charac- 
teristic truth v^'ill compensate every other 
defect. Nay, it will do what appears a con- 
tradiction ; one strong genuine stroke of na- 
ture will cover a multitude of sins, even 
against nature herself. When we meet in 
some scene of a good play a very fine stroke 
of this kind, we are apt to become so intoxi- 
cated with it, and so perfectly convinced of 
the authors great knowledge of the human 
heart, that we are unv/illing to suppose the 
whole of it has not been suggested by the 
same penetrating spirit. Many well-meaning 
enthusiastic critics have given themselves 
a great deal of trouble in this way ; and have 
shut tlieir eyes most ingeniously against tlie 
fair light of nature for the very love of it. 
They have converted, in their great zeal, sen- 
timents palpably false, both in regard to the 
character and situation of the persons who ut- 
ter them, sentiments which a child or a clown 
would detect, into the most skilful depict- 
ments of the heart. I can think of no strong- 
er instance to shov/ how powerfully this love 
of nature dwells witliinus.* 



*^ It appears to ino a very strong testimony of 
the excellence of our great national Dramatist, 
that so many people have been employed in find- 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



15 



Formed as we are with these sympathetic 
propensities in regard to our own species, it is 
not at all wonderful that theatrical exhibition 
lias become the grand and favourite amuse- 
ment of every nation into which it has been 
introduced. Savages v.'ill, in the wild con- 
tortions of a dance, shape out some rude story 
expressive of character or p.assion, and sucli 
a dance, will give more delight to their coni- 
panion,? than the most artful exertions of agil- 
ity. Children in their gambols will make out 
a mimic representation of tlie manners, char- 
acters, and passions of gTown men and women; 
and such a pastime will animate and delight 
them much more than a treat of the daintiest 
sweetmeats, or the handling of the gaudiest 
toys. Eagerly as it i-; enjoyed by the rude 
and the young, to the polished and the ripe 
in years it is still the most interesting amuse- 
ment. Our taste for it is durable as it is 
universal. Independently of those circum- 
stances which first introduced it, the world 
would not have long been v;ithout it. The 
progress of society would soon have brought 
it forth ; and men, in the v.'himsical decora- 
tions of fancy, would have displayed the cha- 
racters and actions of their heroes, the folly 
and absurdity of their fellow-citizens, had no 
Priests of Bacchus ever existed." 



ing out obscure and refined beauties, in wliat ap- 
pear to ordinary observation his very defects. 
iVIen, it, may be said, do so merely to show their 
own superior penetration and ingenuity. But 
granting this ; what could make other men listen 
to them, and listen so greedily too, if it were not 
that they have recQived from the works of Shak- 
spearc, pleasure far beyond what the most perfect 
poetical compositions of a diifereiit character can 
a.Tord.' 

* Though th.e progress of society would liavc 
given us the Drama, independently of the p^-.i-tic- 
ular cause of its first commencement, the pecu- 
liar circumstances connected with its origin have 
had considerable influence upon its character and 
style, in the ages through which it has passed 
even to our day, aiid still will continue to affect 
it. Ifomer had long preceded the dramatic poets 
of Greece ; poetry was in a high state of cultiva- 
tion when they began to write ; and their style, 
the construction of their pieces, and the charac- 
ters of their heroes were diflcrent from what they 
would have been, had theatrical exiiibitions been 
the invention of an earlier age or a ruder people. 
Their works were represented to an audience, 
already accustomed to hear long poems rehearsed 
at their public games, and the feasts of their gods. 
A play, with the principal characters of which 
they were previously acquainted 5 in v.'hich their 
great men and heroes, in the most beautiful lan- 
guage, complained of their rigorous fate, but 
piously submitted to the will of the gods; in 
which sympathy was chiefly excited by tender 
and affecting sentiments ; in v/hich strong bursts 
of passion were few ; and in which whole scenes 
frequently passed, without giving tlie actors any 
thing to do but to speak, was not too insipid for 
them. Had the drama been the invention of a 
less cultivated nation, more of action and of pas- 
sion v.'oukl have been introduced into it. It 
would have been more irregular^ more imperfect, 



In whatever age or country the Drama 
might have taken its rise, I'ragedy would 
have been the first-born of its children. For 
every nation has its great anen, and its great 
events upon record ; and to represent their 
own forefathers struggling with those difficul- 
ties, and braving those dangers, of which 
tliej^ have heard v.'ith admiration, and the ef- 
fects of which they still, perhaps, experience, 
would certainly have been the most animat- ' 
ing subject for the poet, and the most inter- 
esting for his audience, even indcpinidentl'y 
of the natural inclination we all so universal- 
ly show for scenes of horror and distress, of 
passion and heroic exertion. Tragedy would 
have been the first child of the Drama, for 
the sanw reasons that have made heroic bal- 
lad, with all its battles, murders, and disas- 
ters, the earliest poetical compositions of eve- 
ry country. 

We behold heroes and great men at a dis- 
tance, unmasked by those small but distin- 
guishing features of the mind, which give a 
certain individuality to such an infinite vari- 
ety of similar beings, in the near and familiar 
intercourse of life. They appear to us from: 
this view like distant mountains, whose dark, 
outlines we trace in the clear horizon, but the 
varieties of whose roughened sides, shaded 
with heath and brushv/ood, and seamed with 
many a cleft, we perceive not. When acci- 
dental anecdote reveals to us any weakness 
or peculiarity belonging to them, we start 
upon it like a discovery. They arc made 
known to us in history only, by the great 
events tlicy are connected with, and the part 
they have taken in extraordinary or impor- 
tant transactions. Even in poetry and ro- 
mance, with the exception of some love story 
interwoven with the main events of their lives, 
thei^ arc seldom more intimately made known: 
to us. To Tragedy it belongs to lead them 



more varied, more interesting. From poor be- 
ginnings it would have advanced in a progressive 
state : and succeeding' poets, not having those 
polished and admired originals to look back upon, 
would have presented their respective contempo- 
raries with the produce of a free and unbridled 
imagination. A dhTerent class of poets would 
most likely have been called into e.Nistence. The 
latent powers of men are called forth by con- 
templating those works in which they find any 
thing congenial to their own peculiar talents ; 
and if the field, wherein they could have worked, 
is already enriched with a produce nnsuited to 
their cultivation, they think not of entering it at 
all. Men, therefore, whose natural turn of mind 
led them to labor, to reason, to refine and exalt, 
have caught their animation from the beauties of 
the Grecian Drama ; and they who, perhaps, 
ought only to have been our Critics have become 
our Poets. I mean not, however, in any degree 
to depreciate the works of the ancients ; a great 
deal vv-e have gained by those beautiful composi- 
tions ; and what wc have lost by them it is 
impossible to compute. Very strong genius will 
sometimes brealc through every disadvantage of 
circumstances : Shakspeare has arisen in this 
country, and we ouirht not to com.plain. 



IG 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



forward to our nearer regard, in all the distin' 
ffuishing varieties which nearer inspection 
discovers ; with tlie psssions, the humors, the 
weaknesses, tlu^ prejudices of men. It is for 
her to present to us Uie great and magnani- 
mous hero, who appears to our distant view 
as a superior being, as a god, softened down 
with tliose smaller frailties and impertections 
which enable us to glory in, and claim kin- 
dred to his virtues. It is for her to exhibit to 
us the daring and ambitious man planning his 
dark di'signs, and executing Jiis bloody pur- 
poses, marked with tliose appropriate charac- 
teristics, which distinguisli him as an individ- 
ual of that class ; and agitated with those va- 
jried passions, which disturb the mind of man 
when he is engaged in the commission of 
such deeds. It is for her to point out to us 
the brave and impetuous warrior struck witii 
those visitations of nature, which, in certain 
situations, will unnerve the strongest arm, 
and make the boldest heart tremble. It is for 
her to show the tender, gentle, and unassum- 
ing mind animated with that fire which, by 
the provocation of circumstances, will give to 
the kindest heart tlie ferocity and keenness 
of a tiger. It is for her to present to us the 
great and striking characters that are to be 
found amongst men, in a way which the po- 
«t, the novehst, and the liistorian can but im- 
perfectly attempt. But above all, to her, and 
to her only it belongs to unveil to us tlie hu- 
man mind under the dominion of those strong 
and fixed passions, which, seemingly unpro- 
voked by outward circumstances, will from 
small beginnings brood within tiie breast, till 
all the better dispositions, all the fair gifts of 
nature are borne down before them ; those 
passions which conceal themselves from the 
observation of men ; which cannot unbosom 
themselves even to the dearest friend ; and 
can, oftentimes, only give their fulness vent 
in tlie lonely desert, or in tlie darkness of 
midnight. For who hath followed the great 
man into his secret closet, or stood by the side 
of his nightly couch, and heard thobc excla- 
mations of the soul which heaven alone may 
hear, tliat the historian should be able to iii- 
ibrm us ? and what form of story, what mode 
of reliearsed speech will communicate to us 
those feelings, whose irregular bursts, abrupt 
transitions, sudden pauses, and half-uttered 
suggestions, scorn all harmony of measured 
verse, all method and order of relation .'' 

On the first part of this task her Bards have 
eagerly exerted their abilities : and some 
amongst them, taught by strong original ge- 
nius to deal immediately witii human nature 
and tlieir own hearts, have labored in it suc- 
cessfully. But in presenting to us those 
views of great characters, and of the human 
mind in difficult and trying situations which 
peculiarly belong to Tragedy, the far greater 
proportion, even of those who may be consid- 
ered as respectable dramatic poets, have very 
much failed. From tli<^ beauty of those orig- 
inal dramas to which tliey have ever looked 
back with admiration, they Iiave been tempt- 
ed to prefer the embellishments of poetry to 



faithfully delineated nature. They have been 
more occupied in considering the works of 
the great dramatists who have gone before 
them, and the effects produced by their writ- 
inirs, than the varii'ties of human character 
which first furnished materials for those 
works, or those princijiles in the mind of man 
by means of which such effects were produc- 
ed. Neglecting the boundless variety of na- 
ture, certain strong outlines of character, cer- 
tain bold features of passion, certain grand 
vicissitudes, and striking dramatic situations, 
have been repeated from one generation to 
another ; whilst a pompous and solemn gravi- 
ty, which they have supposed to be necessary 
for the dignity of tragedy, has e?:cluded al- 
most entirely from tiieir works those smaller 
touches of nature, which so well develope the 
mind ; and by showing men in their hours of 
state and exertion only, they have consequent- 
ly shown them imperfectly. Thus, great and 
magnanimous heroes, who bear with majestic 
equanimity every vicissitude of fortune ; who 
in every temptation and trial stand forth in 
unshaken virtue like a rock buffeted by the 
waves ; who, encompassed with the most ter- 
rible evils, in calm possession of their souls, 
reason upon the difficulties of their state; 
and, even upon the brink of destruction, pro- 
nounce long eulogiums on virtue, in tlie most 
eloquent and beautiful language, have been 
held forth to our view as objects of imitation 
and interest, as though they had entirely 
forgotten that it is only for creatures like our- 
selves that we feel, and therefore, only from 
creatures like ourselves that we receive the 
instruction of example." Thus passionate 
and impetuous warriors, who are proud, irri- 
table, and vindictive, but generous, daring, 
and disinterested; setting their lives at apin's 
fee for the good of others, but incapable of 
curbing their own humour of a moment to gain 
the whole world for themselves ; who will 
pluck the orbs of heaven from their places, 
and crusli the whole universe in one grasp, 
are called forth to kindle in our souls the gen- 
erous contempt of every thing abject and base; 
but with an effect proportionably feeble, as 
the hero is made to exceed in courage and 



* To a being perfectly free from all human 
infinuity our sympathy refuses to extend. Our 
Saviour himself, whose character is so beautiful, 
and so harmoniously consistent ; in whom, with 
outward proofs of his mission less strong than 
those that are offered to us, I should still be 
compelled to believe, from being utterly unable 
to conceive how the idea of such a character 
could enter into the imagination of man, never 
touches the heart more nearly than when lie says, 
" Father, let this cup pass from me." ll.ad he 
been represented to us in all the unshaken 
strcniith of thsce tragic heroes, his disciples 
would have made fewer converts, and liis pre- 
cepts would have been listened to coldly. Plays 
in which heroes of this kind arc held forth, and 
whose aim is, indeed, honorable and praise- 
worthy, have been admired by the cultivated and 
refined, but the tears of the simple, the applauses 
of the young and untaught have been wanting. 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



17 



fire what the standard of }inmanity will agree 
to.' Thus, tender and pathetic lovers, full 
of the most gentle affections, the most amia- 
ble dispositions, and the most exquisite feel- 
ings; who present their defenceless bosoms 
to the storms of this rude world in all the 
graceful weakness of sensibility, are made to 
sigh out their sorrows in one unvaried strain 
of studied pathos, whilst tliis constant demand 
upon our feelings makes us absolutely incapa- 
ble of answering it.t Thus, also, tyrants are 
represented as monsters of cruelty, unmixed 
with any feelings of himianity ; and villains 
as delighting in all manner of treachery and 
deceit, and acting upon many occasions, for 
the very love of villany itself; though the 
perfectly wicked are as ill fitted for the pur- 
poses of warning, as the perfectly virtuous 

* In all burlesque imitations of tragedy, those 
plays in which this hero is pre-eminent, are al- 
ways exposed to bear the great brunt of the ridi- 
cule, which proves how popular they have been, 
and how many poets, and good ones too, have 
been employed upon them. That they have been 
so popalar, however, is not owing to the intrin- 
sic merit of tlic characters they represent, but 
their opposition to those mean and contemptible 
qualities belonging to human nature, of which 
we are most ashamed. Besides, there is some- 
thing in the human mind, independently of its 
love of applause, which inclines it to boast. 
This is ever the attendant of tliat elasticity of 
soul, whicli makes us bound up from the touch 
of oppression ; and if there is nothing in the ac- 
companying circumstances to create disgust, or 
suggest suspicions of their sincerity, (as in real 
life is commonly the case,) we are very apt to be 
carried along with the boasting of others. Let 
us in good earnest believe that a man is capable 
of achieving all that human courage can achieve, 
and we shall suffer him to talk of impossibilities. 
Amidst all their pomp of words, therefore, our 
admiration of such heroes is readily excited, (for 
the- understanding is more easily deceived than 
the heart ;) but liow stands our sympathy affect- 
ed ? As no caution nor foresight, ou their own 
account, is ever suffered to occupy the thoughts 
of such bold disinterested beings, we are the 
more inclined to care for them, and to take an 
interest in their fortune through the course of 
the play : yet, as their souls are unappalied by 
anything; as pain and death are not at all re- 
garded by them ; and as we have seen them very 
ready to "plunge their own swords into their own 
bosoms, on no very weighty occasion, perhaps, 
their death distresses us but little, and they com- 
monly fall unwept. 

t Were it not, that in tragedies where tliese 
heroes preside, the same soft tones of sorrow are 
so often repeated in our ears, till v.'e are perfect- 
ly tired of it, they are more fitted to interest us 
than any other ; both because in seeing them, we 
own the ties of kindred between ourselves and 
the frail mortals we lament ; and sympathize with 
the weakness of mortality unmixed with any thing 
to degrade or disgust ; and also, because the mis- 
fortunes, which form the story of the play, are 
frequently ofthe more familiar and domestic kind. 
A king driven from his throne, v.'ill not move our 
sympathy so strongly, as a private man torn from 
the bosom of liis familv. 



are for those of example. t This spirit of imi- 
tation, and attention to effect, has likewise 
confined them very much in their choice of 
situations and events to bring their great char- 
acters into action : rebellions, conspiracies, 
contentions for empire, and rivalships in love, 
have alone been thought worthy of trying 
those heroes ; and palaces and dungeons the 
only places magnificent or solemn enough for 
them to appear in. 

They have, indeed, from this regard to the 
works of preceding authors, and great atten- 
tion to the beauties of composition, and to dig- 
nity of design, enriched their plays with much 
striking and sometimes sublime imagery, lof- 
ty thoughts, and virtuous, sentiments ; but in 
striving so eagerly to excel in tliose things 
that belong to tragedy in common with many 
other compositions, they have very much neg- 
lected those that are peculiarly her oVv'n. As 
far as they have been led aside from the first 
labors of a tragic poet by a desire to commu- 
nicate more perfect moral instruction, their 
motive has been respectable, and they merit 
our esteem. But this praiseworthy end lias 
been injured instead of promoted by their 
mode of pursuing it. Every species of moral 
writing has its own way of conveying instruc- 
tion, which it can never, but witii disadvan- 
tage, exchange for any other. The Drama 
improves us by the knowledge we acquire of 
our own minds, from the natural desire we 
have to look into the thoughts, and observe 
the behaviour of others. Tragedy brings to 
our view, men placed in those elevated situa- 
tions, exposed to those great trials, and en- 
gaged in those extraordinary transactions, in 
wiiich few of us are called upon to act. As 
examples applicable to ourselves, therefore, 
they can but feebly affect us ; it is only from 
the enlargement of our ideas in regard to hu- 
man nature, from that admiration of virtue 
and abhorrence of vice which they excite, that 
we can expect to be improved by them. But 
if they are not represented to us as real and 
natural characters, the lessons we are taught 
from their conduct and their sentiments will 
be no more to us, than those which we receive 
from the pages of the poet or the moralist. 



:j: I have said nothing here in regard. to female 
character, though in many tragedies it is brought 
forward as the principal one of the piece, because 
what I have said ofthe above characters is like- 
wise applicable to it. I believe there is no 
man that ever lived, who has behaved in a cer- 
tain manner on a certain occasion, who has not 
had amongst women some corresponding spirit, 
wlio, on the like occasion, and every way simi- 
larly circumstanced, would have behaved in the 
like manner. With some degree of softening 
and refinement, each class of the tragic heroes 
I have mentioned has its corresponding one 
amongst the heroines. The tender and pathetic 
no doubt has the most numerous, but the great 
and magnanimous is not without it, and tlie pas- 
sionate and impetuous boasts of one by no 
means inconsiderable in numbers, and drawn 
sometimes to the full as passionate and impetu- 
ous as itself 



18 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



But the last part of tlie task which I have 
mentioned as peculiarly belonging to trage- 
dy, unveiling the human mind under the do- 
minion of those strong and fixed passions, 
whicli, seemingly unprovoked by outward 
circumstances, will from small beginnings 
brood within the lireast, till all the better dis- 
positions, all the fair gifts of nature are borne 
down before them, her poets in general have 
entirely neglected, and even her first and 
greatest have but imperfectly attempted. 
They have made use of the passions to mark 
their several characters, and animate their 
scenes, rather than to open to our view the 
nature and portraitures of those great disturb- 
ers of the human breast, with whom we are 
all, more or less, called upon to contend. 
With their strong and obvious features, tliere- 
fore, they have been presented to us, stripped 
almost entirely of those less obstrusive, but 
not less discriminating traits, which mark 
them in their actual operation. To trace 
them in their rise and progress in the heart, 
seems but rarely to have been the object of 
any dramatist. We commonly find the charac 
ters of a tragedy affected by the passions in a 
transient, loose, unconnected manner ; or if 
they are represented as under the permanent 
influence of the more powerful ones, they 
are generally introduced to our notice in the 
very height of their fury, when all that timid- 
ity, irresolution, distrust, and a thousand del- 
icate traits, which make the infancy of every 
great passion more interesting, perhaps, than 
its full-blown strength, are fied. The im- 
passioned character is generally brought into 
view under those irresistible attacks of their 
power, which it is impossible to repel ; whilst 
those gradual steps tliat lead him into this 
state, in some of which a stand might have 
been made against the foe, are left entirely 
in the shade. Those passions that may be 
suddenly excited, and are of short duration, 
as anger, fear, and'oftentimes jealousy, may 
in this manner be fully represented ; but 
those great masters of the soul, ambition, 
liatred, love, every passion that is permanent 
in its nature, and varied in progress, if rep- 
resented to us but in one stage of its course, 
is represented imperfectly. It is a charac- 
teristic of the more powerful passions, that 
they will increase and nourish themselves on 
very slender aliment; it is from within that they 
are chiefly supplied with what they feed on ; 
and it is in contending with opposite passions 
and affections of the mind that we best dis- 
cover their strength, not with events. But 
in tragedy it is events more frequently than 
opposite affections which are opposed to 
them; and those often of such force and 
magnitude, tluit the passions themselves are 
almost obscured by the splendor and impor- 
tance of the transactions to which they are 
attached. Besides being thus confined and 
mutilated, the passions have been, in the 
o-reater part of our tragedies, deprived of the 
very power of making themselves known. 
Bold and figurative language belongs pecu- 
liarly to them. Poets, admiring those bold 



expressions wliich a mind, laboring with 
ideas too strong to be conveyed in the ordi- 
nary forms of speech, wildly throws out, 
taking earth, sea, and sky, every thing great 
and terrible in nsiture, to image forth the 
violence of its feelings, borrowed them gladly, 
to adorn the calm sentiments of their j)rcmed- 
itated song. It has therefore been tiiought 
that the less animaU^d parts of tragedy might 
be so embeUished and enriched. In doing 
this, however, the passions have been rob- 
bed of their native prerogative ; and in adorn- 
ing with their strong figures and lofty ex- 
pressions the calm speeches of the unruffled, 
it is found that, when they are called upon 
to raise their voice, the power of distinguish- 
ing themselves has been taken away. This 
is an injury by no means comjjensated, but 
very greatly aggravated, by embellishing, in 
return, the speeches of passion with the 
ingenious conceits, and complete similes of 
premeditated thought.* There are many 
other things regarding the manner in which 
dramatic poets have generally brought forward 
the passions in tragedy, to the greatest pre- 
judice of that effect they are naturally fitted 
to produce upon the mind, which I forbear 
to mention, lest they should too much in- 
crease the length of this discourse ; and leave 
an impression on the mind of my reader, that 
I write more in the spirit of criticism than 
becomes one, who is about to bring before 
the public a work, with, doubtless, many 
faults and imperfections on its head. 

From this general view, whicli 1 have en- 
deavoured to communicate to my reader of 
tragedy, and those principles in the human 
mind upon which the success of her efforts 
depends, I have been led to believe, that an 
attempt to write a series of tragedies, of sirn- 
pler construction, less embellished with poeti- 
cal decorations, less constrained by that lofty 
seriousness which has so generally been 
considered as necessary for the support of 
tragic dignity, and in which the chief object 
should be to delineate tlie progress of the 
higher passions in the human breast, each 
play exhibiting a particular passion, might 
not be unacceptable to the public. And I 
have been the more readily induced to act 
upon this idea, because I am confident, that 
tragedy, written upon this plan, is fitted to 
produce stronger moral effi;ct than upon any 
other. I have said that tragedy, in represent- 
ing to us great characters struggling with 
difficulties, and placed in situations of emi- 
nence and danger, in wliich few of us have 
any chance of lieing called upon to act, con- 
veys its moral efficacy to our minds by the 



"* This, perhaps, more than any thing else has 
injured the higher scenes of tragedy. For hav- 
ing made such free use of bold hyperbolical 
language in the inferior parts, tliQ poet, when 
he arrives at the highly impassioned, sinks into 
total inability : or if he will force himself to rise 
still higher on tlie wing, he flies beyond nature 
altogether, into the regions of bombast and ncJn- 
sense. 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



19 



enlarged views which it gives to us of human 
nature, by the admiration of virtue and ex- 
ecration of vice which it excites, and not by 
the examples it holds up for our immediate 
application. But in opening to us the heart 
of man under the influence of those passions 
to which all are liable, this is not the case. 
Those strong passions that, with small as- 
sistance from outward circumstances, work 
their way in the heart till they become the 
tyrannical masters of it, carry on a similar 
operation in the breast of the Monarch, and 
the man of low degree. It exhibits to us the 
niind of man in that state when we are most 
curious to look into it, and is equally interest- 
ing to all. Discrimination of character is a 
turn of mind, though mor« common than we 
are aware of, wliich every body does not 
possess ; but to the expressions of passion, 
particularljr strong passion, the dullest mind 
i.s awake ; and its true unsophisticated lan- 
guage the dullest understanding will not 
misinterpret. To hold up for our example 
those peculiarities in disposition and modes 
of tlunking which nature has fixed upon us, 
or which long and early habit has incorporated 
with our original selves, is almost desiring 
us to remove the everlasting mountains, to 
take away the native land-marks of the soul ; 
but representing the passions, brings before 
us the operation of a tempest that rages out 
its time and passes away. We cannot, it is 
true, amidst its wild uproar, listen to the 
voice of reason, and save ourselves from de- 
struction ; but we can foresee its coming, we 
can mark its rising signs, we can know the 
situations that will most expose us to its rage, 
and we can shelter our heads from the com- 
ing blast. To change a certain disposition 
of mind which makes us view objects in a 
particular light, and thereby, oftentimes, un- 
known to ourselves, influences our conduct 
and manners, is almost impossible ; but in 
checking and subduing those visitations of 
tlie soul, whoso causes and eSects we are 
aware of, every one may make considerable 
progress, if ho proves not entirely successful. 
Above all, looking back to the first rise, and 
tracing the progress of passion, points out to 
us those stages in the approach of the enemy, 
when he might have been combated most 
successfully ; and v.'here the suffering him 
to pass may be considered as occasioning all 
the misery that ensues. 

Comedy presents to us men, as we find 
them in the ordinary intercourse of the 
world, with all the weaknesses, follies, ca- 
price, prejudices, and absurdities which a 
near and familiar view of them discovers. It 
is her task to exhibit them engaged in the 
busy turmoil of ordinary life, harassing and 
perplexing themselves with the endless pur- 
suits of avarice, vanity, and pleasure; and 
engaged with those smaller trials of the 
mind, by which men are most apt to be over- 
come, and from which he, who could have 
supported with honor the attack of great oc- 
casions, will oftentimes come off" most shame- 
fully foiled. It belongs to her to show the 



varied fashions and manners of the world, 
as, from the spirit of vanity, caprice, and im- 
itation they go on in swift and endless suc- 
cession ; and those disagreeable or absurd pe- 
culiarities attached to particular classes and 
conditions in society. It is for her also to 
represent men under the influence of the 
stronger passions ; and to trace the rise and 
progress of them in the heart, in such situa- 
tions, and attended with such circumstances, 
as take off" their sublimity, and the interest 
we naturally take in a perturbed mind. It is 
hers to exhibit those terrible tyrants of the 
soul, whose ungovernable rage has struck us 
so often with dismay, like wild beasts tied to 
a post, who growl and paw before us, for 
our derision and sport. In pourtraying the 
characters of men she has this advantage 
over tragedy, that the smallest traits of na- 
ture, with the smallest circumstances which 
serve to bring them forth, may by her be 
displayed, however ludicrous and trivial in . i 
themselves, without any ceremony. And in 
developing the passions she enjoys a similar 
advantage ; for they often more strongly be- 
tray themselves when touched by those small 
and famihar occurrences which cannot, con- 
sistently with the effect it is intended to pro- 
duce, be admitted into tragedy. 

As tragedy has been very much cramped in 
her endeavors to exalt and improve the mind, 
by that spirit of imitation and confinement in 
her successive writers, which the beauty of 
her earliest poets first gave rise to, so comedy 
has been led aside from her best purposes by 
a different temptation. Those endless chan- 
ges in fashions and in manners, which offer 
such obvious and ever-new subjects of ridi- 
cule; that infinite variety of tricks and manoeu- 
vres by which the ludicrous may be produced, 
and curiosity and laughter excited ; the admi- 
ration we so generally bestow upon satirical 
remark, pointed repartee, and whimsical com- 
binations of ideas, have too often led her to 
forget the warmer interest we feel, and the 
more profitable lessons we receive, from genu- 
ine representations of nature. Tlie most in- 
teresting and instructive class of comedy, 
therefore, the real characteristic, has been 
very much neglected, whilst satirical, witty, 
sentimental, and, above all, busy or circum- 
stantial comedy, have usurped the exertions 
of the far greater proportion of Dramatic Wri- 
ters. 

In Satirical Comedy, sarcastic and severe 
reflections on the actions and manners of men, 
introduced with neatness, force, and poignan- 
C}'' of expression, into a hvely and well-sup- 
ported dialogue, of whose gay surface they 
are the embossed ornaments, make the most 
important and studied part of the work: char^ 
acter is a thing talked of rather than shown. 
The persons of the drama are indebted for 
the discovery of their peculiarities to what is 
said of them, rather than to any thing they 
are made to say or do for themselves. Much 
incident being unfavourable for studied and 
elegant dialogue, the plot is conmionly sim- 
ple, and the few events that compose it nei- 



20 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



ther interesting nor striking. It only affords 
us that kind of moral instruction which an 
essay or a poem could as well have conveyed, 
and, tJiougij amusing in the closet, is but fee- 
bly attractive in the Theatre.* 

in what T have termed Witty Comedy, ev- 
ery thing isligiit, playful, and easy. Strong, 
decided condemnation of vice is too weighty 
and material to dance upon the surface of that 
stream, whose shallow currents sparkle in 
perpetual sunbeams, and cast up their bub- 
bles to the light. Two or three persons of 
quick thought, and whimsical fancy, who per- 
ceive instantaneously the various connections 
of every passing idea, and the significations, 
natural or artificial, which single expressions, 
or particular forms of speech can possibly con- 
vey, take the lead through the whole, and seem 
to communicate their own peculiar talent to 
every creature in the play. The plot is most 
commonly feeble rather than simple, the inci- 
dents being numerous enough, but seldom 
striking or varied. To amuse, and only to 
amuse, is its aim ; it pretends not to interest 
nor instruct. It pleases when we read, more 
than when we see it represented ; and pleases 
still more when we take it up by accident, and 
read ibut a scene at a time. 

Sentimental Comedy treats of those embar- 
rassments, difficulties, and Scruples, which, 
though sufficiently distressing to the delicate 
minds who entertain them, are not powerful 
enough to gratify the sympathetic desire we 
all feel to look into the heart of man in diffi- 
cult and trying situations, which is the sound 
basis of tragedy, and arc destitute of that sea- 
soning of the lively and ludicrous, which pre- 
vents the ordinary transactions of comedy 
from becoming insipid. In real life, those 
who, from the peculiar frame of their minds, 
feel most of this refined distress, are not gen- 
erally communicative upon the subject; and 
tliose who do feel and talk about it at the 
same time, if any such there be, seldom find 
their friends much inclined to listen to them. 
It is not to be supposed, then, long conversa- 
tions upon the stage about small sentimental 
niceties, can be generally interesting. I am 
afraid plays of this kind, as well as works of 
a similar nature, in other departments of liter- 
ature, have only tended to increase amongst 
us a set of sentimental hypocrites ; who are 
the same persons of this age that would have 
been the religious ones of another ; and are 
daily doing morality the same kind of injury, 
by substituting the particular excellence which 
they pretend to possess, for plain simple up- 
rightness and rectitude. 

In Busy or Circumstantial Comedy, all those 
ingenious contrivances of lovers, guardians, 



* These plays are generally the work of men, 
whose jiulginent and acute observation enable 
them admirably well to "cncralizc, and apply to 
classes of men the remarks they have made upon 
individuals ; yet know not how" to dress up, with 
any natural congruity, an imaginary individual 
in tile attributes they have assigned to those 
classes. 



governantes, and chambermaids ; that am- 
bushed bush-fighting amongst closets, screens, 
chests, easy-chairs, and toilet-tables, form a 
gay, varied game of dexterity and invention : 
which, to those who have played at hide and 
seek, who have crouched down, with beating 
heart, in a dark corner, whilst the enemy 
groped near the spot ; who have joined their 
busy school-mates in many a deep-laid plan 
to deceive, perplex, and torment the unhappy 
mortals deputed to have the charge of them, 
cannot be seen with indifference. Like an old 
hunter, who pricks up his ears at the sound 
of the chase, and starts away from the path 
of liis journey, so, leaving all wisdom and 
criticism behind us, wc follow the varied chan- 
ges of the plot, and stop not for reflection. 
The studious man who wants a cessation fronr 
thought, the indolent man who dislikes it, and 
all those who, from habit or circumstances, 
live in a state of divorce from their own minds, 
are pleased with an amusement, in which they 
have nothing to do but to open, their eyes and 
behold. The moral tendency of it, however, 
is very faulty. That mockery of age and do- 
mestic authority, so constantly held forth, has 
a very bad effect upon the younger part of an 
audience; and that continual lying and deceit 
in the first characters of the piece, which is 
necessary for conducting the plot, has a most 
pernicious one. 

But Characteristic Comedy, which repre- 
sents to us this motley world of men and wo- 
men in which we live, under those circum- 
stances of ordinary and familiar life most fa- 
vourable to the discovery of the human heart, 
offers to us a wide field of instruction adapted 
to general application. We find in its varied 
scenes an exercise of the mind analogous to 
that which we all, less or more, find out for 
ourselves, amidst the mixed groups of people 
whom we meet witli in society ; and wliich I 
have already mentioned as an exercise uni- 
versally pleasing to man. As the distinctions 
which it .is its higliest aim to discriminate, 
are those of nature and not situation, they are 
judged of by all ranks of men; for a peasant 
will very clearly perceive in the character of 
a peer those native peculiarities which belong- 
to him as a man, though ho is entirely at a 
loss in all that regards his manners and ad- 
dress as a nobleman. It illustrates to us the 
general remarks we have jnade upon men ; 
and in it we behold, spread before us, plans 
of those original ground-works, upon which 
the general ideas we have been taught to con- 
ceive of mankind, are founded. It stands but 
little in need of busy plot, extraordinary in- 
cidents, witty repartee, or studied sentiments. 
It naturally produces for itself all that it re- 
quires. Characters, who are to speak for them- 
selves, who arc to be known by their own 
words and actions, not by the accounts 
that are given of them by others, cannot 
well be developed without considerable va- 
riety of judicious incident: a smile that is 
raised by some trait of undisguised nature, 
and a laugh that is provoked by some ludi- 
crous effect of passion, or clashing of opposite" 



INtRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



21 



chaj-acters, will be more pleasing to the gen- 
erality of men, than either the one ortheotli- 
er when occasioned by a play upon words, or 
a whimsical combination of ideas ; and to be- 
hold the operation and effects of the different 
propensities and weaknesses of men, will natu- 
rally call up in the mind of the spectator mor- 
al reflections more applicable, and more im- 
pressive than all the lugh-sounding senti- 
ments with wliich the graver scenes of Satir- 
ical and Sentimejital Comedy are so frequently 
interlarded. It is much to be regretted, how- 
ever, that the eternal introduction of love as 
tlie grand business of the Drama, and the 
consequent necessity for making the chief 
persons in it, such, in regard to age, appear- 
ance, manners, dispositions, and endowments, 
as are proper for interesting lovers, has oeca- 
Bioned so much iusipid snnilarity in tlie high- 
er characters. It is chiefly, theretbre, on the 
second and inferior chaiacters, that tlie eftbrts, 
even of our best poets, have been exhaust- 
ed : and thus we are called upon to be inter- 
ested in the fortune of one man, whilst our 
chief attention is directed to the character of 
(mother, which produces a disunion of ideas 
in the mind, injurious to the general effect of 
tiie wiiole. From this cause, also, tliose 
cliaracteristic varieties have been very much 
neglected, wliich men present t.i us in the 
middle stages of life ; when they are too old 
for lovers or the confidents of lovers, and too 
yomig to be the fathers, uncles, and guardi- 
ans, who are contrasted with them ; but when 
they are still in full vigour of mind, eagerly 
■engaged with the world, joining the activity 
of youtli to the providence of age, and offer 
to our attention objects sulliciently interesting 
And instructive. It is to be regretted that 
.strong contrasts of character are too often at- 
tempted, instead of those harmoiiious shades 
of it, which nature so bcautitully varies, and 
v/hich we so greatly delight in, wheneverwe 
cleaj-ly distinguish tlieni. It is to be regret- 
ted that in place of tiiose characters, wliich 
present tlu-mselves to the imagination of a 
writer from his general observations upon 
mankind, inferior poets have so often pour- 
trayed with senseless minuteness the charac- 
ters of particular individuals. We are pleased 
with the eccentricities of individuals in real 
life, and also in histor}' or biography, but iu 
fictitious writings we regard tliem with sus- 
picion ; and no representation of nature, tliat 
corresponds not with some of our general 
ideas in regard to it, will either instruct or in- 
form us. When the original of such char- 
acters are known and remembered, the plays 
in which they are introduced are oftentimes 
popular ; and their temporary success has in- 
duced a stiU inferior class of poets to believe, 
that, by making men strange, and unlike the 
rest of the world, they have made great dis- 
coveries, and mightily enlarged the boun- 
daries of dramatic character. They will, 
therefore, ilistinguish one man from anotlier 
by some strange whim or imagination, which 
is ever uppermost in his thoughts, and influ- 
ences every action of his life ; by some singu- 



lar opinion, perhaps, about politics, fashions, 
or the position of the stars ; by some strontr 
unaccountable love for one thing, or aversion 
from another ; entirely forgetting that, such 
singularities, if they are to be found in na- 
ture, can no where be sought lor, with such 
probability of success, as in Bedlam. Above 
all it is to be regretted that those adventitious 
distinctions amongst men, of age, fortune, 
rank, profession, and country, are so often 
brought forward in j)reference to the great 
original distinctions of nature , and our scenes 
so often filled with courtiers, lawyers, citi- 
zens, Frenclimen, &c. &c. with all the char- 
acteristics of their respective conditions, 
such as they have been represented from time 
immemorial. This has introduced a great 
sameness into many of our plays, which all 
tlie changes of new fiishions burlesqued, and 
new customs tuined into ridicule, cannot 
conceal. 

In comedy, the stronger passions, love ex- 
cepted, are seldom introduced but in a pass^ 
ing way. We have sliort bursts of onger, 
fits of jealousy and impatience ; violent pas- 
sion of any continuance we seldom find. 
When this is attempted, however, forgetting 
that mode of exposing the weakness of the 
human mind, Avliich peculiarly belongs to her, 
it is too frequently done in the serious spirit 
of tragedy ; and tlii;^ has produced so many 
of those serious comic plays, wliich so mucii 
divide and distract our attention.* Yet we 



*■ Such plays, liowever cvcellent tlie parts may 
be of v.hich they are composed, can never pro- 
duce the same strength and unity of effect upon 
our minds which wo receive from plavs of a 
simpler undivided construction. If the serious 
and distressing scenes make a deep impression. 
we do not find ourselves in a humour for tbe 
comic ones that succeed} and if the comic 
scenes enliven us greatly, we feel tardy and 
unalert in bringing back our minds to a proper 
tone for the serious. As iu tragedy we smile at 
tliose native traits of character, or that occasion- 
al §prightliness of dialogue, which are sometimes 
introduced to animate licrkss interesting parts, 
so may we be moved by comedy ; but our tears 
should be called forth by those gentle strokes of 
nature, which come at once with kindred kind- 
ness on the heart, and are quickly succeeded by 
smiles. Like a small summer-cloud, whose rain- 
drops sparkle in tlie sun, and whicli swiftly 
passes away, is the genuine pathetic of comedy 5 
the gathering foreseen storm, that darkens the 
whole face of the sky, belongs to tragedy nlone. 
It is often observed, I confess, that we are more 
apt to be affected by those scenes oi" distreES 
which we meet with in comedy, than the high- 
wrought woes of tragedy ; and I believe it is 
true. But this arises from the woes oi' tragedy 
being so often nppropriated to high and mighty 
personages, and strained beyond the modesty of 
nature, in order to suit their great dignity; or, 
from the softened griefs of more gentle and 
familiar characters being rendered feeble and 
tiresome with too much repetition and whining. 
It arises from the greater facility with which wo 
enter into the distresses of people, more upon a 
level with ourselves ; and whose sorrowa are 
expressed in less studied and unnatural language. 



INTROmCTORV DISCOUIlSl':. 



sill kiiiiw tVom our own t^xporifnco in roal 
life, (Iwif. iu corlniii situations, ami nndorror- 
tain ciivuinstnnco!', tlio stroiiijor passions nro 
liltod to pnnlui'o soonos nioro oxqnisitoly 
i-oiaio tliun any otIuM-: and on(> wvU-wtouoht 
si'ono of this kinil will liafr a nioro poworiiii 
ctlocf in roprossinjx similar inloniporanct^ in 
llic mind ot'asptH-iator.than n\any moral can- 
tionSj or ovon. porhaps, than the l(MTitic ox- 
nniplop oftrairrdy. Thciv arc to be t'oiind.no 
douH, in the wi>rks ot'onr bt-s^ dramatic writ- 
ers, coi'iic scenes «iosiMiptiv»> ot' the strono-er 
passions, but it is jjenerally tlie interior ehar- 
aoters ot'tho piece wlio an> made tJie subjects 
t>f tiietn. very rarely tliose in wliom wc aro 
nnich interested : and consequently the use- 
I'ul dVeel ot'snch scenes upon tlie n\ind is very 
much we:iJvened. This jyeneral appropriation 
ot'them has tempted our less skilt'ul Ovamat- 
ists to exuiio-erale, and step, in t\n-lher quest 
ot' tJie ludicrous, so nnich beyond the Ixnuuls 
of nature, that the very elVeetthey are so anx- 
ious to produce is theivby d(>stroyed, anil all 
>isi^t"ul a]>plic.ition ol"it entirely cut otl"; tor we 
never apply to ourselves a tiilse ivpre.seiJtat.ion 
ot' uaturv\ 

lint a eomplcMo exhibition of passion, with 
il.s varieties and pn\!vn>ss in tlie breast ot' man, 
has. 1 believe, scarcely ever been attempted 
in comedy. Kven love, thousrh tlie chiet' 
.subject ot' almost every play, has been pour- 
traved in a loose, scattered, and impert'ect 
inaimer. The story ol'tlie lovoi> is acted over 
liefore \is. whilst the cliuraeteristios of tliat 
pa.'^ion b\ which they are actuated, and 
which is tJio ji'veat inaster-spriniv of the whole, 
nn' I'.untly to be iliscovered. AVe are j^mio- 
nJlv intr^Hlueed to a lover after he has long 
Won acquainted witJi his luistn^ss. and wantjs 
hut the eonseut of some stubborn relation, iv- 
lief I'rom some enibavrassment of situation, or 
the eleariuii" up some mistake or love quarrel 
occrt.-'ioned bv malice or accident, to nialve him 
conipletrly liappv. To overcome these (jitliciil- 
ties. he is enijaged in a busy train of contri- 
vance .and exertion, in which the spirit, activi- 
ty, and iusJiMiuity of the man is held forth to 
view, wliiist t he iover.compar.-vtively sjH'akhijT. 
is kept out of sijrht. Hut even when tliis is 
not tlie case : wlien tlie lover is not so busied 
and involved, this sta^ of the i).ission i-; ex- 
actly tiie one that is least interestjuor. aiul least 
instructive : not to mention, as 1 liuve done 
alrvMdy. that one stajji" of ;uiy passion must 
Siiow it iinperl'eetly. 

From this viinv of the Comic Dr.ania. I have 
been induced to Ivlieve. that, as companions 
to the torenienlioued tjiujedies. a series of 
eoinedios on a similar plan, in which bustle 
of plot, brilliancv of diidoffue, aiul oven tlie 
lK»ld .and stxikiuo; in character, should, to the 
lu'st of the author's judijiueut. be kept in due 
subordination to nature, nught likewise W ac- 
ceptable to the public. I ain confident that 
comedy uinui this phm is capable of iKnnsf 
made ns inten'stin^. ;u»entortaininjr. and su- 
perior in moral tendeucv to any o'her. For 
eveji in ortliiuu'y life. witJi ver}' slight cause 
to excite them, etronst passions will foster 



theinselvos within tJie breast; and what are 
all the evils which vanity, foll\'. prejudice, or 
l)eculiarily ot'tiMiipcr lead to. compared with 
those wliieh siieli unquiet inmates produce f 
VN'(>re thev eouliiied to the exalted and th« 
niiiihtv. to liio-je eiiiifaired iu the jjreat I'vent:* 
of the world, to the inhabitiiutjsof palaces and 
c.Tinps. how happy, comparatively, would tJiis 
worhl be ! But many a miserable beinir, 
whom firm principle, timidity of character, or 
tlie fear of sliaiue keeps Kick from the actual 
commission of crimes, is tonneiited in obscu- 
rity, under the iloniinion of those passions 
which jil.ice tiie seducer in njubiish. rouse tlie 
bold spoiler to wronor, and strenorUieii the arm 
of the murderer. Thouoh to those vfitii whom 
such daiio-erous enemies have lono- found shel- 
ter, exposiii;:; them in an al>siinl and ridicu- 
lous li<rhl. may bi> shootiuii a tinely-poinled 
arrow auainst the hardened rock ; yet to those 
with whom they are but new, ajul less assur- 
ed "uests. this may prove a inoi-e successful 
inotle of attack than any otJier. 

It Vwas the sayiiT<x of a sagacious Scotchman, 
'■ liCt who will make the laws of a nation, if I 
Irave thi- writinsj of its ballads." Somelhing 
similar to this may be s;ud in regard to the 
Drama. Its lessons reach not. intleed. to the 
lowest classes of the labourino- people, who are 
the broad ■foundation of society, which can 
never be generally moved without endanger- 
ino; every thing that is constructed upon it, 
and who are our potent and formidable ballad- 
readers; but they reach to the classes next in 
order to tliem. tuid who will always have over 
them no inconsiderable intlueiice. The im- 
pressions made by it are communicated, at tlie 
same instant of time, to a greater uumlier of 
individuals tlian those madt> by any other spe- 
cies of writing; and they are strengtJiened in 
everv spectator, by observing their etl'ects up- 
on thoise who surrouui! him. From this ob- 
servation. tJie mind of my rtviik^rwill suggt^st 
of itself what it would be unnecessary, and, 
perhaps, iniprojrer in me here to enlarg-e upon 
The tlieatre is a school iu which much good 
or evil may Iv learned. At the beginning of 
its career, tlie Drama was emploveil to mis- 
lead and excite; and. wen^ 1 not unwilling 
to n-fer to transavtions of the present times. 1 
might abundantly confirm what 1 have siiid 
byrecent examples. The author, therefore, 
who aims in anv decree to improve the motle 
oi' its instruction, and point to more nset'ul 
lessons than it is generally eiiii>loyed to dis- 
pense, is certainly in-aiseworthy.tJiough want 
of abilities may Unhappily prevfnt lain from 
iKMno; successl'ul in his et^'orls. 

This idea has prompted me to b^gin a work 
in which 1 am awan^ of many difliculties. In 
plavs of fJiis nature the prsissions must be de- 
picted not oitly with their bold and prominent 
teatuivs. bnt also with fhase minute and del- 
icate traits which distiiiiruish tliem in an in- 
fant, growing and repressed state; whicli 
an' the most ditVicult of all to countert'eif, 
ajid one of which, lalselv iuiugined. will dc 
slrov tlie effect of a whole scene. The char- 
acters over whom they .are made to usurp 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE:. 



23 



(lomiriion must be poworf'ul ami interostinw, 
cxfTciHing tht-m with tlu-ir full ineasun' ot' 
opposition and strufrgle ; for tJio ehid" antag- 
onists they contend with must be the other 
passions and propensities of the heart, not 
outward circurnstanoos and events. Though 
hi'Uinir'injr to such characters, tliey must still 
be held to view in the most baleful and un- 
seduntive lijrht; and those qualities in the 
impassioned which are necessary to interest 
us in their fs-te, must not be allowed, by any 
lustre borrowed from them, to diminish our 
abhorrencx^; of guilt. The second, and even 
the inferior persons of each play, as they 
must be kept perfectly distinct from the 
great impassioned one, should generally be 
represented in a calm unagitated state, and 
therefore more pains are necessary than in 
other dramatic works to mark them by ap- 
propriate distinctions of character, lest they 
should appear altogether insi])id and insigni- 
ficant. As the great object here is to trace 
passion through all its varieties, and in every 
stage, many of which are marked by shades 
so delicate, that in much bustle of events 
they would he. little attended to, or entirely 
overlooked, simplicity of plot is more neces- 
sary than in those plays where only occasional 
bursts of passion are introduced, to distinguish 
a character, or animate a scene. But where 
simplicity of plot is necessary, there is very 
great danger of making a piece a[)pear bare 
and unvaried, and nothing but great force 
and truth in the delineations of nature will 
prevent it from being tiresome.* Soliloquy, 
or those overflowings of the perturbed soul, 
in which it unburtlw-ns itself of those thoughts 
which it cannot communicate to others, and 
which in certain situations is the only mode 
that a Dramatist can employ to open to us 
the mind he would display, must necessarily 
be often, and to considerable length, intro- 
duced. Here, indeed, as itnaturafly belongs 



* To make up for this simplicity of plot, the 
show and decorations of the theatre ought to he 
allowed to plays written upon this plaii"^ in their 
full extent. How fastidious soever .some poets 
may be in regard to these matters, it is much 
better to relieve our tired-out attention wjth a 
battle, a banquet, or a procession, than an 
accumulation of ineidents. In the latter case 
the mind is harassed and confused with those 
doubts, conjectures, and disappointments which 
multiplied events occasion, and in a great mea- 
sure unfitted for attending to the worthier parts 
of the piece : but in the former it enjoys a rest, 
a pleasing pause in its more serious occupation, 
from which it can return again, without any 
incumbrance of foreign intruding ideas. The 
show of a splendid procession will afford to a 
person of the best understanding, a pleasure in 
kind,thouL'h not in degree, with that which a 
cbdd would receive from it; but when it is past 
he thinks no more of it; whereas some contusion 
of circumstances, some half-explained mi.stake, 
which gives him no pleasure at all when it takes 
place, may t.ake his attention afterwards from 
the refined beauties of a natural and character- 
istic dialogue. 



to passion, it will not bo so oO'ensive as it 
generally is in other plays, when a calm im- 
agitati'd ])crson tells over to himself all that 
has befallen him, and all his future schemes 
of intrigu/; or advancement; yet to make 
s]jeeches of this kind sufficiently natural and 
impressive to excite no degree of weariness 
nor distaste, will be found to be no easy task. 
There are, besides these, many other diflicul- 
ti(.-s belonging peculiarly to this undertaking, 
too minutt^ and tedious to mention. If, fully 
aware of them, I have nfit shrunk back from 
the attempt, it is not from any idea that my 
own powers or discernment will at all times 
enable me to overcome them; but I ani em- 
boldened by the confidence I feel in that 
candour and indulgence, with which the good 
and enlightened do ever regard the e.vperi- 
mental efforts of those who wish in any de- 
gree to enlarge the sources of ple.isure and 
instruction amongst men. 

It will now be prop<'r to say something of 
the particular plays which compose this vol- 
iiiuf. But in llui first place, I must observe, 
that as I pretend not to have overcome the 
difficulties attaclw^d to this design ; so neither 
from the errors and defects, which, in these 
pages, T have thought it necessary to point 
out ill the works of others, do I at all pretend 
to be blameless. 1o conceive the great 
moral object and outline of the story ; to peo- 
ple it with various characters, r.nder the in- 
fluimce of various passions ; and to strike out 
circumstances and situations calculated to 
call them into action, is a very diflerent em- 
ployment of the mind from calmly consider- 
ing those i)ropensities of our nature, to 
which dramatic writings are most powerfully 
addressed, and taking a general view upon 
tjiosc principles of the works of preceding 
authors. They arc employmimls which can- 
not well occupy it at the same time ; and ex- 
perience has taught us, that critics do not 
unfrequently write in contradiction to their 
own rules. If I should, therefore, sometimpB 
appear, in the iViregoing remarks, to have pro- 
vided a stick wherev/itn to broal: my own pate, 
1 entreat that my reader will believe I am 
neither confident nor boastful, and use it 
with gentleness. 

In the first two plays, where love is the 
passion under review, their relation to the 
general [ilan may not be i,'ery obvious. Love 
is the chief ground-work of almost all our 
tr;!gedies and comedies, and so far they are 
not distinguished from others. But I have 
endeavored in both to give an unbroken 
view of the passion from its beginning, and 
to mark it as I went along, with those pecu- 
liar traits which disMnguish itsdiffcrentstages 
of progression. I have in both these pieces 
grafted this passion, not on tho.-'« open, com- 
municative, impetuous charactirs, who have 
so long occupied the dramatic station of 
lovers, but on men of a firm, thoughtful, re- 
served turn of mind, with v.-horn it commonly 
makes the longest stay, and maintains the 
hardest struggle. I should be extremely 
sorry if, fj-om any thing at the conclusion of 



at 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE, 



the tragedj", it should bo supposed tliat I 
mean to countenanco suicide, or ct)ndeinn 
tiioso customs whoso object is the disoour- 
ao-oment of it, by witlihoiding from the body 
of the self-slain those sacred rites and marks 
of respect commonly shown to the dead. Let 
it be considered, that whatever 1 have in- 
serted there, which can at all raise any suspi- 
cion of this kind, is put into the moui'.is of rude 
uncultivated soldiers, who arc roused with 
the loss of a beloved leader, and indignant at 
any idea of disgrace being attached to him. 
If it should seem inconsistent with the nature 
of this work, that in its companion, the come- 
dy, I have made strong moral principle 
triumph over love, let it be remembered, 
that, without this, the whole moral tendency 
of a play, which must end happily, would 
have been destroyed ; and that it is not my 
intention to encourage the indulgence of this 
passion, amiable as it is, but to restrain it. 
The last play, the subject of which is hatred, 
will more clearly discover the nature and in- 
tention of m\' design. The rise and progress 
of this passion I have been obliged to give 
in retrospect, instead of representing it all 
along in its actual operation, as I could liave 
wished to liave done. But hatred is a passion 
of slow growth ; and to have exhibited it 
from its beginnings would have included a 
longer period, than even those who are least 
scrupulous about the liinitalion of dramatic 
time would have t.liought allowable. I could 
not liave introduced my chief chai-acters upon 
the stage as boys, and then as men. For this 
passion must be kept distinct from that dis- 
like which we conceive for anotlier when he 
has greatly offend(,>d us, a.nd which is almost 
the constant companion of anger; a'.id also 
from that eager desire to crush, and inflict 
suifering on him who has injured us, which 
constitutes revenge. This passion, as I have 
conceived it, is that rooted and settled aver- 
sion, which from opposition of character, aided 
by circumstances of little importance, grows 
G,t last into aueh antipathy and personal dia- 
g'.ist as makes him who entertains it, feel, in 
the presence of him who is the object of it, 
a degree of torment and restlessness which 
is insuff(!rable. It is a passion, I believe, 
less frequent than any otiier of the stronger 
passions, but in the breast wh.'re it does e.v- 
)st, it creates, perhaps, more misery than any 
other. To endeavor to interest the mind for 
a man under the dominion of a passion so 
baleful, so unamiable, may seem, perhaps, re- 
proliensible. I therefore beg it may be con- 
sidered, that it is the i>assion and not the man 
which is held up ta our execration; and that 
this and every other bad passion does more 
strongly evince its peraicious and dangerous 
n.alure, when we see it thus counteracting 
n.nd destroying the good gifts of Pleaven, than 
when it is represented as the suitable associ- 
ate, in the breast of inmates as dark as itself 
This remark will likewise be applicable to 
imny of the otlier I'lays belonging to my 
work, that are intended to follow. A deci- 
dedly wicked character can never be interest- 



ing; and to employ such for the display of 
any strong passion would very much injure, 
instead of improving, tlie moral cfR'ct. In 
the breast oi' a bad man passion has compara- 
tively little to combat; how then can it show 
its strength .■' I shall say no more upon this 
subject, but submit myself to tlie judgment 
of my reader. 

It may, perhaps, be supposed, from my 
publishing these plays, that I have written 
them for the closet rather than the stage. If, 
upon perusing them witli attention, the reader 
is disposed to think they are better calculated 
for the first than the last, let him impute it to 
want of skill in the author, and not to any 
previous design. A play but of small poetical 
merit, that is suited to strike and interest the 
sjjectator, to catch the attention of him who 
will not, and of him Avho cannot read, is a 
more valuable and useful production than one 
whose elegant and harmonious pages are ad- 
mired in t!ie libraries of tlie tasteful and refin- 
ed. To have received approbation from an 
audience of my countrymen, would have been 
more pleasing to me than any other praise. 
A few tears from the simple and young would 
have been, in my eyes, pearls of great price; 
and the spontaneous, untutored plaudits of 
the rude and uncultivated would have come 
to my heart .is offerings of no mean value. 1 
should, therefore, have been better pleased to 
have introduced thern to the world from the 
stage than from the press. I possess, howev- 
er, no likely channel to the former mode of 
public introduction: and, upon further reflec- 
tion, it appeared to me, that by publishing 
them in this way, I have an op;)ortunity af- 
forded me of explaining the design of my 
work, and enabling the jiublic to judge, not 
only of each play by itself, but as making a 
part likewise of the whole; an advantage 
which, perhaps, does more than overbalance 
tlie splendor and effect of theatrical represen- 
tation. 

It may be thought, that witli this extensive 
plan before me, I should not have been in a 
hurry to publish, but have availed to give a 
larger portion of it to the public, v/hich would 
have enabled them to make a truer estimate 
of its merit. To bring 1 brtli only three plays 
of tlie whole, and the last without its intended 
companion, may seem like the haste of those 
vain people, who, as soon .as they have writ- 
ten a few pages of a discour.se, or .a i'ew coup- 
lets of a poem, cannot he easy till every body 
has seen them. I do prote.st, in honest sim- 
jilicity ! it is distrust and net confidence, that 
ha;s led me, at this early st<age of the under- 
taking, to bring it before the public. To la- 
bour in uncertainty is <at all tiuie« unpleasant: 
but to proceed in a long and diflicult work 
Vv'ith any impression U])on your mind that 
your labour may bii in vain; that the opinion 
you have conceived of your .ability to perform 
it. may be a delusion, a false suggestion of 
self-love, the fantasy of an aspiring temper, 
is most discouraging and cheerless. I have 
not proceeded so far, indeed, merely upon the 
strength of my own judgment: but the 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



85 



friends to whom I have shown my manu- 
scripts are partial to me, and their approba- 
tion, whicli in the case of any indifferent per- 
son, would be in my mind completely deci- 
sive, goes but a little way in relieving me 
from these apprehensions. To step beyond 
the circle of my own immediate friends in 
quest of opinion, from the particular temper 
of my mind, I feel an uncommon repugnance ; 
I can with less pain to myself bring them be- 
fore the public at once, and submit to its de- 
cision.* It is to my countrymen at large I 
call for assistance. If this work is fortunate 
enough to attract their attention, let their stric- 
tures as well as their praise come to my aid : 
the one will encourage me in a long and ar- 
duous undertaking, the other will teach me 
to improve it as I advance. For there are 
many errours that may be detected, and im- 
provements that ijiay be suggested in the 
prosecution of this work, whicli, from the 
observations of a great variety of readers, are 
more likely to be pointed out to me, than 
from those of a small number of persons, even 
of the best judgment. I am not possessed of 
that confidence in mine own powers, which 
enables the concealed genius, under the pf es- 
sure of present discouragement, to pursue his 
labors in security, looking firmly forward to 
other more enlighted times for his reward. 
If my own countrymen with whom I live 
and converse, who look upon the same race 
of men, the same state of society, the same 
passing events with myself, receive not my 
offering, I presume not to look to posterity. 
Before I close this discourse, let me crave 
the forbearance of my reader, if he has dis- 
covered in the course of it any unacknow- 
ledged use of the thoughts of other authors, 
which he thinks ought to have been noticed ; 
and let me beg the same favour, if in reading 
the following plays, any similar neglect seems 
to occur. There are few writers who have 
sufficient originality of thought to strike out 
for themselves new ideas upon every occa- 
sion. When a thought presents itself to me, 
as suited to the purpose I am aiming at, I 
would neither be thought proud enough to 
reject it, on finding that another has used it 
before me, nor mean enough to make use of 
it without p.cknowledging the obligation, 
when I can at all guess to whom such ac- 
knowledgments are due. But I ain situated 
where I have no library to consult ; my read- 
ing through the whole of my life has been of 
a loose, scattered, unmethodical kind, with no 
determined direction, and I have not been 
blessed by nature with the advantages of a 
retentive or accurate memory. Do not, how- 



* The first of these plays, indeed, has been 
8h< vn to two or three Gentlemen whom I have 
not the honor of reckoning amongst my friends. 
One of them, who is a man of distinguished tal- 
ents, has honoied it with very flattering approba 
tion ; and, at his suggestion, one or two sligh- 
alterations in it have been made. 



ever, imagine from this, I at all wish to in- 
sinuate that I ought to be acquitted of every 
obligation to preceding authors ; and tliat 
when a palpable similarity of thcuo-ht and ex- 
pression is observable between us, it is a 
similarity produced by accident alone, and 
with perfect unconsciousness on my part. I 
am frequently sensible, from the manner in 
which an idea arises to my imagination, and 
the readiness with wliicli words, also, piesent 
themselves to clothe it in, that I am only 
making use of some dormant part of tliat 
hoard of ideas which the most indifferent 
memories lay up, and not the native sugges- 
tions of mine own mind. Whenever I have 
suspected myself of doing so, in the course 
of this work, I have felt a strong inclination 
to mark that suspicion in a note. But, be- 
sides that it might have appeared like an af- 
fectation of scrupulousness which I would 
avoid, there being likewise, most assuredly, 
many other places in it where I have done 
the same thing without being conscious of it, 
a suspicion of wishing to slur them over, and 
claim all the rest as unreservedly my own, 
would unavoidably have attached to me. If 
this volume should appear, to any candid and 
liberal critic, to merit that he should take the 
trouble of pointing out to me in what parts 
of it I seem to have made that use of other 
authors' writings, which, according to the 
fair laws of literature, ought to have been 
acknowledged, I shall think myself obliged 
to him. I shall examine the sources he 
points out as having supplied my own lack 
of ideas ; and if this book should have the 
good fortune to go through a second edition, 
I shall not fail to own my obligations to him, 
and the authors from whom I may have " bor- 
rowed. 

How little credit soever, upon perusing 
these plays, the reader may think me entitled 
to in regard to the execution of the work, he 
will not, I flatter myself, deny me some credit 
in regard to the plan. I know of no series 
of plays, in any language, expressly descrip- 
tive of the different passions ; and I believe 
there are few plays existing, in which the 
display of one strong passion is the chief 
business of the drama, so written that they 
could properly make part of such a series. 
I do not think that we should, from the works 
of various authors, be able to make a collec- 
tion which would give us any thing exactly 
of the nature of flirt which is here proposed. 
If the reader, in perusing it, perceives that 
the abilities of the author are not proportioned 
to the task which is imposed upon them, he 
will wish, in the spirit of kindness rather than 
of censure, as I most sincerely do, that they 
had been more adequate to it. However, if I 
perform it ill, 1 am still confident that this . 
(pardon me if I call it so) noble design will 
not be suffered i -> fall to the ground: some 
one will arise after me who will do it justice; 
and there is no poet, possessing genius for 
such a work, who will not at the same time 



INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. 



possess that spirit of justice and of candour, 
which will lead him to remember me with 
respect. 

I have now only to thank my reader, who- 
ever he may be, who has followed me through 
the pa^es of this discourse, for having had 
the patience to do so. May he, in going 

Note. — Shakspeare, more than any of our poets, 
gives peculiar and appropriate distinction to the 
character of his tragedies. The remarks I have 
made, in regard to the little variety of character 
to be met with in tragedy, apply not to him. 
Neither has he, as other Dramatists generally 
do, bestowed pains on the chief persons of his 
drama only, leaving the second and inferiour 
ones insignificant and spiritless. He never 
wears out our capacity to feel, by eternally 
pressmg upon it. His tragedies are agreeably 



through what follows (a wish the sincerity 
of which he cannot doubt,) find more to re- 
ward his trouble than I dare venture to prom- 
ise him ; and for the pains he has already takj 
en, and those which he intends to take for 
me, I request that he will accept of my grate- 
ful acknowledgements. 

checquered with variety of scenes, enriched 
with good sense, nature, and vivacity, which 
relieve our minds from the fatigue of continued 
distress. If he sometimes carries this so far as 
to break in upon that serious tone of mind, which 
disposes us to listen with effect to the higher 
scenes of tragedy, he has done so chiefly in his 
historical plays, where the distresses set forth 
are commonly of that public kind, which does 
not, at any rate, make much impression upon 
the feelings. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The plays contained in this volume were all laid by for, at least, one year, before they 
were copied out to prepare them for the press ; I have therefore had the advantage of read- 
ing them over, when they were in some measure effaced from my memory, and judging of 
Ihem in some degree like an indifferent person. The Introduction has not had the same ad- 
vantage ; it was copied out for the press immediately afler I had finished it, and I have not 
had courage to open the book, or read any part of it, till it was put into my hands to be cor- 
rected for the third editioru Upon reading it over again, it appears to me that a tone of cen- 
sure and decision is too often discoverable in it, which I have certainly no title to assume. 
It was, perhaps, difficult to avoid this fault, and at the same time completely to give the view 
I desired of my motives and plan in this work ; but I sincerely wish that I had been skilful 
enough to have accomplished it without falling into this errour. Though I have escaped, as 
far as I know, all censure on this account, yet I wish the Publick to be assured, that I am 
both sensible of, and grateful for, their forbearance. 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



MEN. 



Co0NT Basil, 

Count Rosinberg, 
DcKE OF Mantua. 
Gauriceio, 
Valtomer, 
Frederick, 

Geoffry, 

MiRANDO, 



a General in the Empe- 
rour's service, 
his Friend. 

his Minister. 
f Two Offiicers of Basil's 
[ Troops. 

[an old Soldier very 
' 7mich maimed in the 
' icars. 

a little Boy , favourite to 

Victoria. 



WOMEN. 



Victoria, 

Countess or Albini, 
Isabella, 



C Daughter to the 
\ Duke of Mantua. 
C Friend and Gov- 
^ ernessto Victoria. 
C a Lady attending 
( upon Victoria. 
Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants, Masks, 
Dancers, <^c. 

f*f. The Scene is in Mantua, and its envi- 
rons. Time supposed to be the Sixteenth Cen- 
tury, ichen Charles the Fifth defeated Fran- 
cis the First, at the battle o/Pavia. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. AN OPEN STREET, CROWDED 

WITH PEOPLE WHO SEEM TO BE 
WAITING IN EXPECTATION OF SOME 
SHOW. 

Enter a Citizen. 

First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the 

fraud procession .' 
left it passing by the northern gate. 
Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it 

comes at last. 
Young Man. And does the Princess look so 
wondrous fair 
As fame reports ? 

Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, — 
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court 
Are in her train. 

Old Man. Bears she such off 'rings to Saint 
Francis' shrine, 
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says.' 
— 'Twill drain the treasury ! 

Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, 
returns 



Her publick thanks to the good patron Saint, 
Who from his sick bed hath restor'd her father. 
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty 

hands .' 
She loves magnificence — 

( Discovering amongst the croiod Old Geoffry., 
Ha ! art thou here, old remnant of the wars .'' 
Thou art not come to see this courtly show, 
Which sets the young agape ? 

Geof. I come not for the show; and yet 
methinks, 
It were a better jest upon me still. 
If thou didst truly know mine errand here. 
Cit. I pri'thee say. 

Geof. What, must I tell it thee > 

As o'er my evening fire I musing sat. 
Some few days since, my mind's eye back- 
ward turn'd 
Upon the various changes I have pass'd — 
How in my youth, with gay attire allur'd. 
And all the grand accoutrements of war, 
I lefl my peaceful home : Then my first battles, 
When clashing arms, and sights of blood 

were new : 
Then all the after chances of the war : 
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was, 
When with an arm (I speak not of it oft) 
Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve) thou 

seest is no arm of mine. 
In a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes, 
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; 
For which good service, in his tented court. 
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me ; 
Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side. 
The fairest lady e' er mine eyes beheld. 
Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd — 
Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile — 
'T was a heait-kindling smile, — a smile of 

praise — 
Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past, 
A neighbour drew the latchet of my door. 
And full of news from town, in many words 
Big with rich names, told of this grand pro- 
cession ; 
E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul 
To see the princess pass, if in her looks 
I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. 
This is the simple truth ; laugh as thou wilt. 
I came not for tlie show. 

Enter an Officer. 
Officer to Geof. Make way that the proces- 
sion may have room : 
Stand you aside, and let this man have place. 
{Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put an- 
other in his place.) 
Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer, 
I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. 



28 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Officer. What, wilt thou not give place? the 
prince is near : 
1 will complain to him, and have thee caged. 
Geo/. Yes, do couiplain, I pray; and when 
thou dost, 
Say that the private of the tenth brigade, 
Who sav'd his army on the Danube's liank, 
And since that time a private liath remained, 
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain 
Against tliy insolence. Go tell hiin this, , 
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower 
He'll have me thrust into. 

Cit. to Officer. This is old GeofFry of the 

tenth brigade. 
Offi. I knew him not : you should have told 
me sooner, [exit, looking much ashamed. 

Martial Miisick heard at a distance. 
Cit. Hark, this is musick of a warlike kind. 

Enter Second Citizen. 

To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good 

friend, which this way bear.' 
Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon 
his march. 
To join the Emp'ror with some chosen troops, 
And as an ally doth through Mantua pass. 
Geof. I' ve heard a good report of tliis young 

soldier. 
Sec. Cit. 'Tis said he disciplines his men 
severely, 
And over-mucli the old commander is. 
Which seems ungracious in so young a man. 
Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry ; 
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate 
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou 

think. 
That e'en the very meanest simple craft. 
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd, 
And yet the noble art of soldiership 
May be attain'd by loit'ring in the sun ? 
Some men are born to feast, and not to fight ; 
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's 

field, 
Still on their dinner turn — 
Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home. 
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. 
In times of easy service, true it is. 
An easy careless chief all soldiers love ; 
But O! how gladly in the day of battle 
Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert. 
And follow such a leader as Count Basil ? 
So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call, 
Confess the master deer. 

(Musick is heard again, and nearer. GeofFry 
walks up and down rcith a military 
triumphant step. 
Cit. What moves tliee thus.' 
Geof. I've marcli'd to this same tune in 
glorious days. 
My very limbs catch motion from the sound, 
As they were young again. 

Sec. Cit. But here they come. 

Enter Count Bash., Officers and Soldiers in Pro- 
cession, with Colours flying, and martial mu- 
sick, Wlien they liavc marched half-way over 
the Stage, an Officer of the Duke's enters from 



the opposite side, and [speaks to Basil, upon 
which lie gives a sign with his hand, and the 
mi 'tial musick ceases ; soft musick is heard at 
a little distance and Victoria, with a long 
procession of Ladies, enters frcin the oppoaile 
side. General, &c. pay obeisance to her, as 
she pa?ses ; she stops to return it, and then 
goes off with her train. After which the 
military procession moves on, and Exeunt. 

Cit. to Geof. What think 'st thou of the 

princess ? 
Geof. She is fair, 

But not so fair as her good mother was. 

[Exeunt. 

scene ii. — a public walk on the ram- 
parts of the town. 

Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and 
Frederick. — Valtomer enters by the oppo- 
site side of the Stage, and meets them. 

Volt. O what a jolly town for way-worn 
soldiers ! 
Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, 
From every house salutes you as you pass : 
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; 
Musick and merriment in ev'ry street; 
Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire, 
Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind, 
To spy the fools a-gazing after them. 

Fred. But short will be the season of our 
ease. 
For Basil is of flinty matter made, 
And cannot be allur'd — 
'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst com- 
mand us. 
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble. 
Some years his elder too — How has it been 
That he should be preferr'd .' I see not why. 

Ros. Ah ! but I see it, and allow it well ; 
He is too much my pride to wake my envy. 

Fred. Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admira- 
tion 
Which raises him to such superiour height ; 
And truly thou hast so infected us. 
That I at tunes have felt me aw'd before him, 
I knew not why. 'T is cursed folly this. 
Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. 

Ros. Our talents of a diff''rent nature are ; 
Mine for the daily intercourse of life. 
And his for higher things. 

Fred. Well, praise liira as thou wilt; I see 
it not ; 
I'm sure I am as brave a man as he. 

Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern 
brav'ry. 
And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed aa 

well, 
Give and receive as deep a wound as he. 
When Basil fights he wields a thousand 

swords ; 
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind, 
O'erwatching all the changes of the field. 
Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm. 
Which makes his soldiers bold. — 
There have been those, in early manhood slain, 
Whose great heroick souls have yet inspir'd 
With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops, 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



29 



That to their latest day of bearing arms, 
Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers 

brav'd 
Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful 

pride, 
As tliose v/ho fought beneath them in their 

)'outh. 
Such men have been; of whom it maybe said, 
Their sjiirits conquer'd when their clay was 

cold. 
Valt. Yes, I have seen in the eventful field, 
When new occasion mock'd all rules of art, 
E'en old commanders hold experience cheap, 
And look to Basil ere his chin was dark. 

Kos. One fault he has ; I know but only one ; 
His too great love of military fame 
Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft ap- 
pear 
Unsocial and severe. 

Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted in the 

field.' 
As much enthusiastic love of glory.' 
Why am I not as good a man as he .' 

Ros. He's form'd for great occasions, thou 

for small. 
Valt. But small occasions in the path of life 
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely 

scatter'd. 
Ros. By which you would infer that men 

like Fred'rick 
Should on the whole a better figure make. 
Than men of higher parts. It is not so; 
For some shew well, and fair applauses gain. 
Where want of skill in other men is graceful. 
Pray do notfrown, good Fred'rick, no oifence : 
Thou canst not make a great man of thyself ; 
Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs. 
And prove an honor'd courtly gentleman. 
But hush! no more of this; here Basil comes. 

Enter Basil, who returns their salute .without 
speaking. 

Ros. What think'st thou, Valtomer, of 

Mantua's princess.' 
Valt. Fame prais'd her much, but hath not 
prais'd her more 
Than on a better proof the eye consents to. 
With all that grace and nobleness of mien. 
She might do honor to an emp"rours throne ; 
She is too noble for a petty court. 
Is it not so, my Lord.' — (To Basil, icho only 

botes assent.) 
Nay , she demeans herself with so much grace, 
Such easy state, such gay magnificence. 
She should be queen of revelry and show. 
Fred. She's charming as the goddess of 

delight. 
Valt. But after her, she most attracted me 
Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the 

last ; 
For tho' Victoria is a lovely woman — 

Fred. Nay, it is treason but to call her 
woman; 
She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd. 
jBut on my life, since now we talk of wor- 
ship, 



She worshipp'd Francis with right noble 

gills ! 
They sparkled so with gold and precious 

gems — 
Their value must be great; some thousand 
crowns. 
Ros. I would not rate them at a price so 
mean; 
The cup alone, with precious stones beset. 
Would fetch a sum as great. That olive- 
branch 
The princess bore herself, of fretted gold. 
Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it 

more, 
Because she held it in so white a hand. 

Bos. (in a quick voice.) Mark'd you her 
hand .' I did not see her hand. 
And yet she wav'd it twice. 

Ros. It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not, 
Valt. I wish some painter's eye had view'd 
the group. 
As she and all Iver lovely damsels pass'd; 
He would have found wherewith t'enrich 
his art. 
Ros. I wish BO too; for oft their fancied 
beauties 
Have so much coid perfection in their parts, 
'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and 

blood. 
Tliis is not truth, and doth not please so well 
As the varieties of lib'ral nature. 
Where ev'ry kind of beauty charms the eye; 
Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent, 
Ay, by the mass ! and snub-nos'd beauties too. 
'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching 

charm. 
If that she be not proud, or captions. 

Valt. Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to 

freaks. 
Ros. Or giv'n to freaks ! hold, hold, good 
Valtomer ! 
Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under 
heav'n. 
Valt. But I must leave you for an hour 
or so; 
I mean to view the town. 
Fred. I'll go with thee. 
Ros. And so will I. 

[Exeunt Valt. Fred, and Ros. 

Re-enter Rosinberg. 

Ros, I have repented me, I will not go; 
They will be too long absent. — {Pauses, and 
looks at Basil, who remains still mu- 
sing tcithout seeing him.) 
What mighty thoughts engage my pensive 
friend .' 

Bas. O it is admirable ! 

Ros. How runs thy fancy ? what is admi- 
rable .' 

Bas. Her form, her face, her motion, ev'ry 
thing ? 

Ros. The princess; yes, have we not 
prais'd her much ? 

Bas. I know you prais'd her, and her ofF- 
rings too ! 
She might have giv'n the treasures of the east, 



30 



BASIL ; A TRAGEDY. 



Ere I had known it. 

O ! didst thou mark her when she first ap- 
peared ? 

Still distant, slowly moving with her train ; 

Her robe and tresses floating on the wind, 

Like some light figure in a niorning cloud ? 

Then, as she onward to the eye became 

The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew! 

That graceful bearing of her slender form ; 

Her roundlj'-spreading breast, her tow'ring 
neck, 

Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of 
youth — 

But when approaching near, she tow'rds us 
turn'd, 

Kind mercy ! what a countenance was there ! 

And when to our salute she gently bow'd. 

Didst mark that smile rise from her parting 
lips? " 

Soft swell'd ^er glowing cheek, her eyes 
smil'd too : 

how they srail'd ! 'twas like the beams of 

heav'n ! 

1 felt my roused soul within me start, 
Like sometlring wai'd from sleep. 

Ros. The beams of heav'n do many slum- 

b'rers wake 
To care and misery ^ 

Bas. There's something grave and solemn 

ill your voice 
As you pronounce these words. What dost 

thou mean ? 
Thou wouldst not sound my knell ? 

Ros. No, not for all beneath the vaulted 

sky'! 

But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips. 

Her praise displeases me. To men like you, 

If love should come, he proves no easy guest. 

Bas. What, dost thou think I am beside 

myself, 
And cannot view the fairness of perfection 
With that delight which lovely beauty gives, 
Without tormenting me with fruitless wisheS; 
Like the jMor child who sees its brighten'd 

face. 
And whimpers for the moon ? Thou art not 

serious. 
From early youth, war has my mistress been, 
And though a rugged one, I'll constant prove, 
And not forsake her now. There may be 

joys 

Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the 

soul, 
Visit the lover's breast beyond all others ; 
E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may ! 
But what of tiiem .'' they are not made for me — 
The hasty flashes of contending steel 
Must serve instead of glances from my love. 
And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's 

roar. 
Ros. (takiii<r his hind.) Now I am satisfied. 

Forgive me, Basil. 
Bas. I'm glad thou art; we'll talk of her 

no more ; 
Why should I vex my friend .' 
Ros. Thou hast not issued orders for the 

march. 



Bas. I'll do it soon ; thou need'st not be 
afraid. 
To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence, 
Never perhaps to pass these gates again. 
Ros. With last night's close, did you not 
surse this town 
That would one single day your troops retard .' 
And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it, 
As though it were the place that gave you 

birth ; 
As though you had around these strangers' 

walls 
Your infant gambols play'd. 

Ba3. The sight of what may be but little 
priz'd. 
Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind, 
When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again-. 
Ros. No, not a whit to wand'ring men like 
us. 
No, nqt a whit ! What custom hath endear'd 
We part with sadly, though we prize it not: 
But what is new some powerful charm must 

own, 
Thus to affect the mind. 

Bas. (hastily.) We'll let it pass — It hath 
no consequence : 
Thou art impatient. 

Ros. I 'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only wish 
Some other rout ourdestin'd march had been, 
That still thou mightst thy glorious course 

pursue 
With an untroubled mind. 

Bas. O ! wish it, wish it not ! bless'd be 
that rout ! 
Whatwehavc seen to-day, I must remember — 
I should be brutish if I could forget it. 
Oft in the watchful post, or weary march, 
Oft in the nightly silence of my tent. 
My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still ; 
But it will pass before my fancy's eye, 
Like some delightful vision of the souJ, 
To soothe, not trouble it. 

Ros. What ! 'midst the dangers of eventful 
war, 
Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman .' 
Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in bat- 
tle, 
As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Cala- 
bria, 
And never stop to cry ' alack-a-day ! ' 
For me there is but one of all the sex. 
Who still shall hold her station in my breast, 
'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune ; 
Because I'm passing sure she loves me well. 
And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds 
When rumour tells bad tidings of the war ; 
Because I know her love will never change. 
Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy. 

Bas. Happy art thou ! who is this won- 
drous woman .' 
Ros. It is mine own good mother, faith and 

truth ! 
Bas. (smiling:) Give me thy hand ; I love 
her dearly too. 
Rivals we are not, though our love is one. 

Ros. And yet I might be jealous of her love,, 
For she bestows too much of it on thee, 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



31 



Who hast no claim but to a nephew's share. 
Bas. (going.) I'll meet thee some time 

hence. I must to Court. 
Ros. A private conrrence will not stay thee 
long. 
I'll wait thy coming near the palace gale. 
Bas. 'Tis to the public court I mean to go. 
Ros. I thought you had deterrain'd other- 
wise. 
Bas. Yes, but on farther thought it did ap- 
pear 
As though it would be failing in respect 
At such a time — That look doth wrong me, 

Rosinberg ! 
For on my life, I had determin'd thus, 
Ere I beheld— ''before we enter'd Mantua. 
But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb. 
And go with me thyself.'' 

Ros. Yes, I will go. 

(^s they are going Ros. stops, and looks at 
Basil.) 
Bas. Why dost thou stop ? 
Ros. ' Tis for my wonted caution, 

Which first thou gav'st me — I shall ne'er 

forget it ! 
'Twas at Vienna, on a public day ; 
Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd ; 
Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first 

cockade, 
Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty 

thoughts. 
" Thou'rt for the court, dear Rosinberg," 

quoth thou ! 
" Now pray theG be not caught with some 

gay dame. 
To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself: 
It is offensive in the public eye. 
And suits notwith aman of thy endowments." 
So said your serious lordship to me then, 
And have on like occasions, often since, 
In other terms repeated. — 
But I must go to-day without my caution. 

Bas. Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now : 
Did I not say we'd talk of her no more .'' 
Ros. Well, my good friend, God grant we 
keep our word ! 

[Exeunt. 

End of the First Act. 



Note. — My first idea when I wrote this play, 
was to represent Basil as having seen Victoria 
for the first time in the procession, tiiat I might 
shew more perfectly the passion from its first 
beginning, and also its sudden power over the 
mind ; but I was induced from tlie criticism of 
one, whose judgment I very much respect, to 
alter it, and represent mm as having formerly 
seen and loved her. The first Review that took 
notice of this work objected to Basil's having 
seen her before as a defect'; and, as we are all 
easily determined to follow our own opinion, I 
have, upon atter-consideration, given the play in 
this edition [i/tird] , as far as this is concerned, 
exactly in its original state. Strong internal 
evidence of this will be discovered by any one, 
who will take the trouble of reading attentively 



the second scenes of the first and second acts in 
the present and former editions of this book. 
Had Basil seen and loved Victoria before, his 
first speech, in which he describes her to Rosin- 
berg as walking in the procession, would not be 
natural; and there are, I think, other little 
things besides, which will shew that the circum- 
stance of his former meeting with her is an 
interpolation. 

The blame of this, however, I take entirely 
upon myself: the Critick, whose opinion I have 
mentioned, judged of the piece entirely as an 
unconnected play, and knew nothing of the 
general plan of this work, which ought to have 
been communicated to him. Had it been, 
indeed, an unconrwoted play, and liad I put this 
additional circumstance to it with proper judg- 
ment and skill, I am inclined to think it would 
have been an improvement. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. A ROOM OF STATE, 

The Duke of Mantua, Basil, Rosinberg, 
and a number of Courtiers, Attendants, &c. 
The Duke and Basil appear talking together 
on the front of the Stage. 

Duhe. But our opinions differ widely there ; 
From the position of the rival armies, 
I cannot think they'll join in battle soon. 

Bas. I am indeed beholden to your highness, 
But tho' unwillingly, we must depart. 
The foes are near, the time is critical ; 
A soldier's reputation is too fine 
To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud. 
Dxike. An untried soldier's is ; but yours, 
m}^ lord, 
Nurs'd with the bloody showers of many a 

field. 
And brightest sunshine of successful fortune, 
A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown. 
E'en Envy's sharpest blasts assail it not. 
Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross ! 
I feel too warm an interest in the cause 
To stay your progress here a single hour. 
Did I not know your soldiers are fatigu'd. 
And two days' rest would much recruit their 
strength. 
Bas. Your highness will be pleas'd to par- 
don me ; 
My troops are not o'ermaxch'd, and one day's 

rest 
Is all our needs require. 

Duke. Ah ! hadst thou come 

Unfetter'd with the duties of command, 
I then had well retain'd thee for my guest. 
With claims too strong, too sacred "for denial. 
Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was ; 
Together many a rough campaign we serv'd ; 
1 lov'd him well, and much it pleases me 
A son of his beneath my roof to see. 

Bas. Were I indeed free master of myself. 
Strong inclination would detain me here ; 
No other tie were wanting^ 
These gracious tokens of your princely favour 
I'll treasure with my best remembraiices ; 
For he who shows them for my father's sake, 



32 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Does something sacred in his kindness bear, 
As tho' he slied a blessing on my head. 
Duke. Well, bear my greetings to the brave 

Piscaro, 
And say how warmly I embrace the cause. 
Your third day's march will to his presence 

bring 
Your valiant troops : said you not so, my lord .' 

Enter Victoria, the Countess of Albim, 
Isabella, and Ladys. 

Bas. (who changes countenance upon seeing 
them.) 
Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well — 
Yes, please your grace, we march by break 
of day. 
Duke. Nay, that I know. I asked you, 
noble Count, 
When you expect th' Imperial force to join. 
Bas. When it shall please your grace — I 
crave your pardon — 
I somewhat have mistaken of your words. 

Duke. You are not well; your color changes. 
What is the matter .'' 

Bas. A dizzy mist that swims before my 
sight — 
A ringing in my ears — 'tis strange enough — 
'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone al- 
ready. 
Duke. I'm glad it is. Look to your friend. 
Count Rosinberg, 
It may return again. — (To Rosinberg, whx) 
stands at a. little distance, lookiiig earnestly at 
Basil. — Duke leaves them, and joins Vic- 
toria's -party.) 
Ros. Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with 
thee ! 
Thy hand shakes too : (taking his hand.) 
Would we were far from hence ! 
Bas. I'm v.'ell again, thou need'st not be 
afraid. 
'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd 
With some slight weakness from our weary 

march. 
rJay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly — 
I cannot bear thine eyes. 

The Duke, with Victoria and her Ladies, 
advance to the front of the Stage to Basil. 

Duke. Victoria, welcome here the brave 
Count Basil. 
His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg. 
May you, and these fair ladies so prevail. 
Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain. 
To make them grace my court another day. 
I shall not be offended when I sec 
Your power surpasses mine. 
_ Vict. Our feeble efforts will presumptuous 
seem 
Attempting that in which your highness fails. 
Duke. There's honour in th' attempt ; suc- 
cess attend ye. — fDuke retires and 
mixes with the Courtiers at the bottom of the 

Stage.) 
Vict. I fear we incommode you, my Lord, 
With the slow tedious length of our procession. 



E'en as I pass'd, against my heart it went 
To stop so long upon their weary way 
Your tired troops. — 

Bas. Ah! Madam, all too short f 

Time never bears such moments on his wing. 
But when he flies too swiftly to be mark'd. 
Vict. Ah ! surely then you make too good- 
amends 
By marking now his after- progress well. 
To-day must seem a weary length to him 
Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow. 

Ros. They must not linger who would quit 
these walls ; 
For if they do, a thousand masked foes ; 
Some under show of rich luxurious feasts, 
Gay, sprightly pastime, and high zested 

game : — 
Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is, 
The very worst and fcllest of the crew, 
In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames, 
Do such a barrier form t' oppose their way 
As few men may o'ercome. 

Isab. From this last wicked foe should we 
infer 
Yourself have suffer'd much.' 

Albin. No, Isabella, these are common 
words. 
To please you with false notions of your pow'r. 
So all men talk of ladies and of love. 

Vict. 'Tis even so. If love a tyrant be, 
How dare his humble chained votaries 
To tell such rude and wicked tales of him .'' 
Bas. Because they most of lover's ills com- 
plain. 
Who but affect it as a courtly grace. 
Whilst he who feels is silent. 
Ros. But there you wrong me ; I have felt 
it oft. 
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet, 
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl. 
Albin. In all its strange effects, most wor- 
thy Rosinberg, 
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit, 
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue.'' 
Ros. No, 'faith, it never has. 
Albin. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! then thou hast nev- 
er lov'd. 
Ros. Nay, but I have, and felt love's bon- 
dage too. 
Vict. Fye ! it is pedantry to call it bondage! 
Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars. 
Deserve, methinks, that appellation more. 
Is it not so, my Lord : — (To Basil. j 

Bas. O surely. Madam I 

That is not bondage which tlie soul enthrall'd 
So gladly bears, and quits not but with an- 
guish. 
Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men, 
These are the fetters tliat enchain the mind, 
But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd. 
Jlrt. No, not unloos'd, but yet one day re- 
lax'd. 
To grant a lady's suit, unus'd to sue. 

Ros. Your highness deals severely with us 
now, 
And proves indeed our freedom is but small. 
Who are conetrain'd when such a lady sues, 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



33 



To say, It cannot be. 

Vict. It cannot be ! Count Basil says not 

so. 
Ros. For that I am his friend, to save him 
pain 
I take th' ungracious office on myself. 

Vict. Plow ill thy face is suited to thine of- 
fice ! 
Ros. (smiling.) Would I could suit mine 
office to my face, 
If that would please your highness. 

Vict. No, you are obstinate and perverse all, 
And would not grant it if you had the pow'r. 
Albini, I'll retire; come, Isabella. 

Bas. (aside lo Ros.) Ah, Rosinberg ! thou 
hast too far presum'd ; 
She is offended with us. 

Ros. No, she is not — 

What dost thou fear.' Be firm, and let us go. 
Vict, (pointing to a door leading to other 
apartmejits, hy ichich she is ready to go out.) 

These are apartinents strangers love to see : 
Some famous paintings do their walls adorn : 
They lead you also to the palace court 
As quickly as the way by which you came. 
[Exit Vict, led out by Ros. and followed hy 

ISAB. 

Bus. (aside, looking after them.) O ! what 
a fool am I ! where fled my thoughts .' 
I might as well as he, now, by her side. 
Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine ; 
As well as he, who cares not for it neither. 
O but he does!' that were impossible ! 
Jilhin. You stay behind, my lord. 
Bas. Your pardon, Madam ; honour me so 
far — 

[Exeunt Jianding out Albini. 

Scene II. — A gallery hung with 

PICTURES, 

Victoria discovered in conversation with Ro- 
sinberg, Basil, Albini, and Isabella. 

Vict, (to Ros.) It is indeed a work of won- 
drous art. 
(To Isab.) You call'd Francisco here ^ 
Isab. ■ He comes even now. 

Enter Attendant. 

Vict, (to Ros.) He will conduct you to the 
northern gall'ry; 
Its striking shades will call upon the eye. 
To point its place there needs no other guide. 
[Exeunt Ros. and Attendant. 
(To Bas.) Loves not Count Basil too this 
charming art .^ 
It is in ancient painting much admir'd. 
Bas. All : do not banish me these few short 
moments : 
Too soon they will be gone 1 for ever gone ! 
Vict. If they are precious to you, say not 
so, 
But add to them another precious day. 
A Lady asks it. 

Bas. Ah, Madam ! ask the life-blood from 
my heart ! 
Ask all but what a soldier may not give. 



Vict. 'Tis ever thus when favours are denied > 
All had been granted but the thing we beg ; 
And still some great unlikely substitute. 
Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good, 
Is proffer'd in the room of one small boon. 
So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord, 
And may it long your noble heart enrich. 
Until I wish it shed. (Bas. attempts to speak.) 
Nay, frame no new excuse ; 
I will not hear it. 

(Slic pvts out her hand as if she would 
shut his mouth, but at a distance from 
it ; Bas. runs eagerly up to her, and 
jjr esses it to his lips. ) 
Bas. Let this sweet hand indeed its threat 
perform, 
And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb ! 
(Vict, looks stately and offended.— Basil kneels.) 

pardon me ! I know not what I do. 
Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness; 
But only grant — 

Vict. What should I grant to hiiii, 

Who has so oft my earnest suit denied .■' 
Bas. By heaven I'll grant it ! I'll do any- 
thing : 
Say but thou art no more offended with me. 
Vict, (raising him.) Well, Basil, this good 
promise is th}^ pardon. 

1 will not wait your noble friend's return, 
Since we sliall meet again. — 

You will perform your word .' 

Bas. I will perform it. 

Vict. Farewell, my lord.* 

[Exit, icith her Ladies. 

Bas. (alone.) " Farewell, my lord." O! 
v/liat delightful sweetness ! 
The music of that voice dwells on the ear ! 
" Farewell, my lord ! " — Ay, and then look'd 

she so — 
The slightest glance of her bewitching eye, 
Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost 

soul. 
Well, there is yet one day of life before me, 
And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it. 
Though but a partial sunshine in my lot, 
I will converse with her, gaze on her still, 
If all behind were pain and misery. 
Pain ! Were it not the easing of all pain, 
E'en in the dismal gloom of after years, 
Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear 
Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep. 
When heav'n's blest sun is gone .'' 
Kind mercy ! how my heart within me beat 
When she so sweetly pled the cause of love ! 
Can she have lov'd ? why shrink I at the 

thought ? 
Why should she not! no, no, it cannot be — 
No man on earth is worthy of her love. 
Ah ! if she could, how blest a man were he ! 
Where rove my giddy thoughts .'' it must not 

be. 
Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear; 
Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire, 
And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall. 
Yes, she would mourn — such love might she 
bestow ; 



S4 



IJASIL: A TRACED V, 



And poor of soul the man who would ex- 
change it 
For warmest love of the most loving dame ! 
But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well ? 
He will not say I have. 

Enter Rosinberg. 

Ros. Where is tlio princess ? 
I'm sorry I return'd not ere she went. 
Bas. Youll see her still. 
Ros. Wl;at, conies she forth again ? 

Bas. She do.es to-morrow. 
Ros. Thou hast yielded then. 

Bas. Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we 
go; 
It was impossible I should not yield. 

Ros. O Basil ! thou art wealier than a child. 
Bas. Yes, yies, my friend, but 'tis a noble 
weakness ; 
A weakness wliich hath greater things achiev'd 
Than all the firm determin'd strength of rea- 
son. 
By heav'n ! I feel a new-born pow'r within 

me, 
Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been 
Before this fated day. 

Ros. Fated indeed ! but an ill-fated day, 
That makes thee other than thy former self 
Yet let it work its will ; it cannot change thee 
To aught I shall not love 

Bas. Thanks, Rosinberg 1 thou art a noble 
heart ! 
I would not be the man thou couldst not love 
For an Impcrial'Crown. [Exeunt. 



Scene III. — a 

THE PALACE. 



SMALL APARTMENT IN 



Enter Duke and Gauriecio. 



Duke. The point is gained ; my daughter is 

successful ; 
And Basil is detain'd another day. 

Gaur. But does the princess know your 

secret aim .'' 
Duke. No, that had marr'd the whole ; she 

is a woman ; 
Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and 

narrow 
To relish deep-laid schemes of policy. 
Besides, so far unlike a child of mine. 
She holds its subtle arts in higli derision, 
And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes. 
Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find 
Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd 
By silly superstitious child-learnt fears, 
What might I not cflTect .' 

Gaur. O anything ! 

The deep and piercing genius of your highness. 
So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire. 
Duke. No, no, my friend, thou dost o'pr- 

prize my parts ; 
Yet mighty things might be — deep subtle wits 
In truth, are master spirits in the world. 
The brave man's courage, and the student's 

lore, 
Are but as tools his secret ends to work , 



Who hatli the skill to use them. 

This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him 

well > 
Much have we gain'd, but for a single day, 
At such a time, to hold his troops detain'd ; 
When, by that secret message of our spy, 
The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action : 
But might we more effect .' Know'st thou 

this Basil ? 
Might he be tainper'd with ? 

Gaur. Tliat were most dang'rous. — 

He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong 
To such a high romantic pitcli is wound, 
And all so hot and fiery is his nature. 
The slightest hint, as thn' you did suppose 
Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it, 
Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy. 
Duke. Butint'restjint'rest, man's all-ruling 
pow'r, 
Will tame the liottest spirit to your service, 
And skilfully applied, mean service too ; 
E'en as there is an element in nature 
Which, when subdu'd will on your hearth 

fulfil 
The lowest uses of domestic wants. 

Gaur. Earth-kindled fire, which from a lit- 
tle spark. 
On hidden fuel feeds his growing strength. 
Till o'er the lofty fabrick it aspires 
And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd, 
And in your base domestic service bound ; 
But who would madly in its wild career 
The fire of lieav'n arrest to boil his pot .' 
No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes, 
Tho' you had all to give ambition strives for. 
We must beware of him. 

Duke. His father was my friend, — I wish'd 
to gain him : 
But since fantastic fancies bind him thus, 
The sin be on his head; I stand acquitted, 
And must deceive liim, even to his ruin. 
Gaur. I have prepared Bernardo for your 
service ; 
To night he will depart for tli' Austrian camp, 
And should he find them on the eve of battle, 
I've bid him wait the issue of tlie field. 
If that our secret friends victorious prove. 
With th' arrow's speed he will return again; 
But should fair Fortune crown Piscaro's 

arms, 
Then shall your soothing message greet his 

ears ; 
For till our frici>ds some sound advantage gain. 
Our actions still must wear an Austrian face. 
Duke. Well hast thou school'd him. Didst 
tliou add withal. 
That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech, 
With honied words of the most dear regard. 
And friendly love I bear him ? This is need- 
ful ; 
And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid 
Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse 
The many favours on my house bestow'd 
By his Imperial master, as a theme 
On which my gratitude delights to dwell. 
Gaur. 1 have, an' please your highness. 
Duke. Then 'tis well. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



3^ 



Gaur. But for the yielding up that Uttle fort 
There could be no suspicion. 
Duke. My Governor I have severely pun- 
ish'd, 
As a most daring traitor to my orders. 
He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell ; 
Why then should they suspect.' 

Gaur. He must not live should Charles 

prove victorious. 
Duke. Yie's done me service: say not so, 

Gauriecio. 
Gaur. A traitor's name he will not calmly 
bear ; 
He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live. 
Duke. Well, if it must — we'll talk of this 

again. 
Gaur. But while with anxious care and 
crafty wiles. 
You would enlarge the limits of your state, 
Your highness must beware lest inward broils 
Bring danger near at hand : your northern 

subjects 
E'en now are discontented and unquiet. 

Duke. What, dare the ungrateful miscreants 
thus return 
The many favours of my princely grace .' 
'Tis ever thus indulgence spoils the base ; 
Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence, 
Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh 
When morning shines upon it. — 
Did I not lately with parental care, 
When dire invaders their destruction threat- 

en'd, 
Provide them all with means of their defence .' 
Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust, 
A body of their vagrant youth select 
To guard my sacred person ? till that day 
An honour never yet allow'd their race. 
Did I not suifer them, upon their suit, 
T' establish manufactures in their towns .' 
And after all some chosen soldiers spare 
To guard the blessings of interior peace 1 
Guar. Nay, please your highness, they do 
well allow, 
That when your enemies in fell revenge 
Your former inroads threaten'd to repay. 
Their ancient arms you did to them restore, 
Witli kind permission to defend themselves : 
That so far have they felt your princely grace. 
In drafting from their fields their goodliest 

youth 
To be your Servants: That you did vouch- 
safe, 
On paying of a large and heavy fine. 
Leave to apply the labour of their hands 
As best might profit to the country's weal : 
And to encourage well their infant trade, 
Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please 

your grace, 
All this they do most readily allow. 

Duke. They do allow it then ungrateful 
varlets ! 
What would they have.' what would they 
have, Gauriecio ! 
Guar. Some mitigation oftheir grievous 
burdens, 
Which, like an iron weightaround their necks. 



Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth, 

Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep, 

Not stand erect, and view the sun of heav'n. 

Duke. But they b6yond their proper sphere 

would rise; 
Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours. 
Society of various parts is form'd ; 
They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment. 
And we the mantling top which crowns the 

whole. 
Calm, steady labour is their greatest bliss ; 
To aim at higher things beseems them not. 
To let them work in peace my care shall be ; 
To slacken labour is to nourish pride. 
Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools : 
What may this mean, Gauriecio ? 

Gaur. They were resolv'd to lay their cause 

before you, 
And would have found some other advocate 
Less pleasing to your Grace had I refus'd. 
Duke. Well, let them know, some more 

convenient season 
I'll think of this, and do for them as much 
As suits the honour of my princely state. 
Their prince's honour should be ev6r dear 
To worthy subjects as their precious lives. 
Gaur. I fear, unless you give some special 

promise, 
They will be violent still — 

Duke. Then do it, if the wretches are so' 

bold: 
We can retract it when the times allow ; 
'Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo, 
And come to me again. [Exit. 

Gaur. (solus) O happy people ! whose in- 
dulgent lord 
From ev'ry care, with which increasing 

wealth. 
With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move 
The human breast, most graciously would 

free, 
And kindly leave you nought to do but toil ! 
This creature now, with all his reptile cunning. 
Writhing and turning through a maze of wiles, 
Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind ; 
And calls his sordid wish for territory 
That noblest passion of the soul, ambition. 
Born had he been to follow Some low trade, 
A petty tradesman still he had remain'd, 
And us'd the art with which he rules a state 
To circumvent his brothers of the craft. 
Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware. 
And yet he thinks, — ha, ha, ha, ha! — he 

thinks 
I am the tool and servant of his will. 
Well, let it be ; thro' all the maze of trouble 
His plots and base op ression must create, 
I'll shape myself a way to higher things: 
And who will say 'tis wrong .' 
A sordid being, who expects no faith 
But as self-interest binds; who would not 

trust 
The strongest ties of nature on the soul. 
Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate 1 
Were I like him, I would despise this dealing ; 
But being as I am, born low in fortune, 
Yet with a mind aspiring to be great, 



36 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



I must not scorn the stops which lead to it: i 
And if they arc not riglit, no saint am I ; 
I follow nature's passion in n\y breast, 
Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune. 

[Exit. 

Scene IV. — An apartment in the 

PALACE. 

Victoria and Isabella are discovered playing 
at Chess; the Countess Alb in i sitting by them 
reading to herself- 

Vict. Away with it, I will not play again. 
May men no more be foolish in my presence 
If thou art not a chc^at, an arrant cheat ! 

Isab. To swear that I am false by such an 
oath, 
Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture 
Would bring your highness gain. 

Vict. Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple 
maid ; 
For in the very forfeit of this oath. 
There's death to all the dearest pride of 

women. 
May man no more be foolish in my presence ! 

Isab. And does your grace, hail'd by ap- 
plauding crowds. 
In all the graceful eloquence address'd 
Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths, 
Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards. 
Those awkward proofs of admiration prize, 
Which rustic swains their village fair ones 
pay! 

Vict. O, love will master all the power of 
art! 
Ay, all ! and she who never has beheld 
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage, 
Before tlic glances of her conqu'ring eye 
A very native simple swain become. 
Has only vulgar charms. 
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude, 
Subdue the haughty, shake the undaunted 

soul ; 
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth. 
And lead him forth as a domestic cur, 
These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty ! 
Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful 

praise. 
Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service, 
Attend her presence, it were nothing worth : 
I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks. 
And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame. 

Mb. (raising Iter head from licr book.) And 
is, indeed, a plain domestic dame, 
Who fills the duties of an useful state, 
A being of less dignity than she, 
Who vainly on her transient beauty builds 
A little poor ideal tyranny .'' 

Isab. Ideal too ! 

.lib. Yes, most unreal pow'r ; 

For she who only finds her self-esteem 
In others" admiration, begs an alms; 
Depends on others for her daily food. 
And is the very servant of her slaves ; 
Tho' oftentimes, in a fantastic hour, 
O'er men she may a childisii pow'r exert, 



Which not ennobles, but degrades her state. 
Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe ! 
Were human passions plac'd witliin the breast 
But to be curb'd.subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots ! 
All heaven's gifts to some good end were 
giv'n. 
Jllb. Yes, for a noble, for a generous end. 
Vict. Am 1 ungen'rous then ? 
AU). Yes, most ungen'rous : 

Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r. 
Would give most unavailing pain to those 
Whose love you ne'er can recompense again- 
E'en now, to-day, O ! was it not ungen'rous 
To fetter Basil with a foolish tie. 
Against his will, perhaps against his duty i 
Vict. What, dost tliou think against his will, 

my friend ? 
Alb. Full sure I am against his reason's will. 
Vict. Ah ! but indeed thou must excuse me 
here ; 
For duller tlian a shelled crab were she. 
Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind, 
And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd. 
But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on 

me .'' 
Ah ! well I read those looks ! methinks they 

say, 
" Your mother did not so." 

Mb. Your highness reads them true, she 
did not so. 
If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts. 
She kept it \o\v, withheld its aliment ; 
Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motlej- food, 
From the fond tribute of a noble heart 
To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child. 
Vict. Nay, speak not thus, — Albini, speak 
not thus 
Of little blue-ey'd, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando^ 
He is the orphan of a hapless pair ; 
A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair, 
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad, 
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay. 
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep. 
Besides, (to Isab.) I am the guardian of his 

choice. 
'When first I saw him — dost tliou not remem- 
ber .' 
IsaJb. Twas in the publick garden. 
Vict. Even so; 

Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a roughsoinef 

quean, 
111 suited to the lovely charge she bore. 
How stoadfiistly he fixed his looks upon me, 
His dark eyes shining thro' forgotten tears, 
Then strelch'd his little arms and call'd me 

mother! 
What could I do.' I took the bantling home — 
I could not tell the imp he had no mother. 
Alb. Ah! there, my child, thou hast indeed 

no blame. 
Vict. Now this is kindly said : thanks, 
sweet Albini ! 
Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt. 
O ! would that I were such as thou couldst 

love! 
Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my 
mother ! 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



37 



yilb. (pressing her to her breast.) And do I 
not? all perfect as she was, 
I know not that slae went so near my heart 
As thou witli all thy faults. 

Vict. And say'st thou so? would I had 
sooner known ! 
I had done anything to give thee pleasure, 
jllb. Then do so now, and put thy faults 

away. 
Vict. No, say not faults; tlie freaks of 

thoughtless youth. 
^Ib. Nay, very faults they must indeed be 

call'd. 
Vict. O ! say but foibles ! youtliful foibles 

only I 
jilb. Faults, faults, rea2 faults you must 

confess they are. 
Vict. In trutli 1 cannot do your sense the 
wrong- 
To think so poorly of the one you love. 
.'ilb. I must be gone : thou hast o'ercome 
me now: 
Another time I will not yield it so. [Exit. 
Isab. The Countess is severe, she's too 
severe : 
She once was young tho' now advanc'd in 
years. 
Vict. No, I deserve it all; she is most wor- 
thy. 
Unlike those faded beauties of the court, 
But now the wither'd stems of former flowers 
With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind 
Procures to her the privilege of man, 
Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays. 
Some few years hence, if I should live so 

long, 
I d be Albini rather thaai myself. 
Isab. Here comes your little fav'rite. 
Vict. I am not in the humour for him now. 

Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and 
taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no 
notice of him, as he holds up his mouth to be 
kissed. 

Isab. (to .ViVJ Thou seest the princess can't 

he troubled with thee. 
Mir. O but she will! I'll scramble up her 
robe, 
As naughty boys do when they climb for ap- 
ples. * 
Isah. Come here, sweet child; I'll kiss tliee 

in her stead. 
Mir. Nay, but T will not have a kiss of 
thee. 
Would I were tall! O were I but so tall! . 
Isab. And how tall wouldst thou be? 
Mir. Thou dost not know ? 

Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips. 
Vict, {embracing him.) O'. I must bend to 
this, thou little urcliin. 
Who taught thee all tliis wit, this childish 

wit ? 
Whom does Mirando love? (embraces him 
tigain.) 
•WJr. He loves Victoria. 

Vict. And wherefore loves he her ? 



Mir. Because she's pretty. 

Isab. Hast thou no little prate to-day. Mi- 

rando ? 
No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal ? 

Mir. Ay, that I have : I know who loves 

her grace. 
Vict. Who is it, pray ? thou shalt have com- 
fits for it. 
Mir. (looking shjly at her.) It is — it is — it is 

the Count of Maldo. 
Vict. Away, thou little chit! that tale is 

old. 
And was not worth a sugar-plum when new. 
Mir. Well then, I know W^ho loves her 

highness well. 
Vict. Who is it then ? 

Isab Who is it, naughty boy ? 

Mir. It is the handsome marquis of Carlatzi. 
Vict. No,. no, Mirando, thou art naughty 

still : 
Twice have I paid thee for that tale already. 
Mir. Well then, indeed — I know who loves 

Victoria. 
Vict. And who is he ? 

MJr. It is Mirando's self. 

Vict. Thou little imp ! this story is not new, 

But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us 

go- 
Go, run before us. Boy. 
Mir. Nay, but 111 shew you how Count 
Wolvar Jook'd, 
When he conducted Isabel from Court. 
Vict. How did he look? 
Mir. Give me your hand : he held his 
body thus ; 
(putting himself in a ridiculous borcing posture.) 
And then he whisper'd softly; thenlook'd so; 
(ogling icith his eyes affectedly. ) 
Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again. 
(throwing dozen his eyes affectedly.) 
Isab. Tliou art a little knave, and must be 

whipp'd. 
[Exeunt. Mirando leading out Victoria af- 
fectedly. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — an opex street, or sq.uare. 

Enter Rosinberg and Frederick, by opposite 
sides of the Stage. 

Fred. So Basil, from the pressing calls of 
war, 
Another day to rest and pastime gives. 
How is it now ? methinks thou art not pleas'd. 

Ros. It matters little if I am or not. 

Fred. Now pray thee do confess thou art 
asham'd: 
Thou, who art wisely wont to set at nought 
The noble fire of individual courage, 
And call calm prudence the superio-ar virtue. 
What say'st thou now, my candid Rosinberg, 
When thy great captain, in a time like this, 
Denies his weary troops one day of rest 
Before th' exertions of approaching battle. 
Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit .•' 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY 



Ros. Who told thee tliis ? it was no friend- 
ly tale ; 
And no one else, besides a trusty friend, 
Could kn'ow his'motives. Then thou wrongs't 

me too ; 
For I admire, as much as thou dost, Fred'rick, 
TIk? fire of valoar, e'en rash heedless valour; 
But not like thee do 1 depreciate 
That far superiour, yea, that godlike talent, 
Which dotli direct that fire, because indeed 
It is a talent nature has denied me. 

Fred. Well, well, and greatly he may boast 

his virtue. 
Who risks perhaps th' Imperial army's fate, 
To please a lady's freaks — 

Ros. Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd : 

A passion, which I do not chusc to name, 
Has warp'd thy judgement. 

Fred. No, by hear'n thoiv wrono-'st me ! 
I do, with most enthusiastick warmth. 
True valour love : wherever he is found, 
I love the hero too ; but hate to see 
The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd. 
Kos. Then mayst tlioU now these gen'rous 

feelin'gs prove. 
Behold that man, whose short and grizzly 

hair 
In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'er- 

shades ; 
Where now the scars of former sabre wounds. 
In hon'rable companionship are seen 
With the deep lines of age ; whose piercing 

eye 
Beneath its shading eyebrow keenly darts 
Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age 
Its youthful fire had been again renew''d. 
To be the guardian of its darken'd mUte : 
See with what vig'rous steps his'upright form 
He onward bears; nay, e'en that vacant 

sleeve. 
Which droops so sadly by his better side. 
Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien. 
This is tlie man, whose glorious acts in battle 
We heard to-day related o'er our wine. 
I go to tell the gen'ral he is come : 
Enjoy the gen"rous feelings of thy breast, 
And maJie an old man happy. [Exit. 

Enter Geoffky. 

Fred. Brave soldier, let me profit by t'he 
chance 
That led me here ; I've heard of thy exploits. 
Geuf. Ah ! then you have but heard an a:i- 
cient tale. 
Which has been long forgotten. 

Fred. But true it is, and should not be for- 
gotten ; 
Tho' gon rals jealous of their soldiers' fame. 
May dash it with neglect. 

Geof. There arc, perhaps, wlio may be so 

ungcn'rous. 
Fred. Perhaps, say'st thou ? in very truth 
there are. 
How art thou else rewarded with neglect. 
Hiilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps 
^I'as been promoted/' it is ever thus. 
Serv'd not Mardini m your company .' 



He was, tho' honour'd with a valiant name, 
To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier. 
Geof. Your pardon. Sir: we did esteem 
him much, 
Allho' inferiour to his gallant friend, 
The brave Sebastian. 

Fred. The brave Sebastian '. 

He was, as 1 am told, a learned coxcomb. 
And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword. 
What, dost thou call him brave ? 
Tlimj, who dost bear about that war-worn 

trunk, 
Like an old target, hack'd and rough with 

Wouilds, 
Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he 
Was with a smooth sicin in his coffin laid, 
Unblemish'd with a scar .■' 

Geof. His duty call'd not to such desp'rate 
service; 
For I have sought where few alive remain'd, 
And none unscath'd ; where but a tew re- 
main'd, 
Thus marr'd' and mangled ; (shoiolng his 
wounds.) as beliko you've seen, 

O' summer nights, around the evening lamp, 
Some wretched moths, wingless, and half 

consum'd. 
Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead. — 
In Savoy, on a small, tho' desp'rate post, 
Of full thrfee hundred goodly chosen men. 
But twelve were lefl,and right dear friends 

werci we 
For ever after. They are all dead now : 
I'm oldand lonely. — We were valiant hearts — 
Fred'rick Dewalter would have stopp'd a 

breach 
Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now ! 
Fred. I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrate- 
ful chiefs ! 
Why wert thou not promoted .' 

Geof. After that battle, where my happy 
fate 
Had' led me to fulfil a glorious part, 
Chafd with the gibing insults of a slave. 
The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'- 

rite, 
I rashly did affront ; our cautious prince, 
With narrow policy dependant made, 
Dar'd not, as 1 am told, promote me then, 
And now he is asham'd or ha^forgot it. 

Fred. Fye, fye, upon it ! let hian bo asham'd: 
Here is a trifle for thee — {offering him montij.) 

Geof. No, good sir ; 

I have enough to live as poor men do. 
When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive, 
Becailse I'm poor, but not because I'm brave, 
Fred. You're proud, old soldier. 
Grof. No, I am not proud ; 

For if I were, methinks I'd be morose. 
And willing to depreciate other men. 
Enter Ro^inberg. 

Ros. (clapping Geo(. 071 the shoulder.) How 
goes it with thee now, my good Field- 
marshal ? 
Geof. The better that I sec your honour well, 
And in the humour to be merry with me. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



39 



Ros. 'Faith, by my sword, I'ye rightly 
nam'd thee too ; 
What is a good Field-marshal, but a man, 
Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind 
Doth marshal others on in glory's way ? 
Thou iirt not one by princely favour dubb'd. 
But one of nature's making. 

Geof. You shew, my lord, such pleasant 
courtesy, 
I know not how — 

Ros. But see, the gen'ral comes. 

Enter Basil. 

Ros. (pointing to Geof.) Behold the worthy 

vet'ran. 
Bas. (taking him hy the hnml.) Brave hon- 
ourable man, your worth I know. 
And greet it with a brother soldier's love. 

Gcof. (taking aicaij his hand in confusion.) 

Mygen'ral,this>is too much, too much honour. 

Bas. (taking his hand again.) No, valiant 

soldier, 1 must have it so. 
Geof. My humble state agrees not with such 

honour. 
Bas. Think not of it, thy state is not thyself. 
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on 

thee. 
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal, 
O.'erlooks the giant : 'tis not worth a thought. 
Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade. 
Whose warlike feats, child, maid, and matron 

know .'' 
And oft, cross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl. 
The jolly toper to his comrade tells .'' 
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door, 
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand 
The many movements of the varied field, 
Jn warlike terms to list'ning swains relates ; 
"Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous tale 
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life ; 
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be 
The man thou art, than court-created cJiief, , 
Known only by the dates of his promotion ! 
Geof. Ah! would I were, would I were 
young again. 
To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral ; 
Methinks what Ihave done were but a jest. 
Ay, but a jest to what -I now should do, 
Were I again the man that I have been. 
O ! I could fight.I 

Bas. And wouldst thou fight for me .'' 

Geof. Ay, to the death ! 
Bas. Then come, brave man, aiid be my 
champion still : 
The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts ; 
Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me. 
[Exit ivith Geoffry. 
Fred. What does he mean to do .■' 
Ros. We'll know ere long. 

Fred. Our gen'ral bears it ,with a careless 
face, 
JPor one so wise. 

Ros. A careless face ? on what ? 

Fred. Now feign not ignorance, we know 
it all. 
News which have spread in whispers from 
the court. 



Since last night's messenger arrived from 
Milan. 
Ros. As I'm anhcnest man, I know itnotj 
Fred 'Tis said the rival armies are so near 
A battle must inmiediately ensue. 

Ros. It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not. 
The Duke is of our side a sworn ally, 
And had such messenger to Mantua come. 
He would have been appriz'd upon the instant. 
It cannot be, it is some idle tale. 

Fred. So may it prove till we have join'd 
them too — 
Then heaven grant they may be nearer still I 
For O ! my soul for war and danger pants. 
As doth the noble lion for his prey. 
My soul delights in battle. 

Ros. Upon my simple word, I'd rather see 
A score of friendly fellows shaking hands, 
Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no 
fear.? 
Fred. What dost thou mean ? 
Rofi. Hast thou no fear of death ? 

Fred. Fear is a name for something in the 
mind, 
But wliat, from inward sense, I cannot tell. 
I could as little anxious march to battle. 
As when a boy to childish games I ran. 
Ros. Then as much virtue hast thou in thy 
valour. 
As when a child thou iiadst in childish play. 
The brave man is not he who feels no fear, 
For that were stupid and irrational ; 
But he, whose nolsle soul its fear subdues. 
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks 

from. 
As for your youth, whom blood and blows de- 
light, 
Away with them ! there is not in the crew 
One valiant spirit. — Ha ! what sound is this .'' 
{shouting is heard jcilhout.) 
Fred. The soldiers shout ;, I'll run and learn 

the cause. 
Ros. But tell me first, how didst thou like ■ 

the vet'ran ? 
Fred. He is too proud ; he was displcas'd 
with me, 
Because I offer'd him a little sum. 

Ros. What, money ! O ! most gen'rous no- 
ble spirit ! 
Noble rewarder of superiour worth ! 
A halfpenny for Belisarius ! 
But hark ! they shout again^ — here comes 
Valtomer. 

(Shouting heard vuthout.) 

Enter Valtomer. 

What does this shouting mean ^ 

Valt. O ! I have seen a sight, a glorious 
sight ! 
Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it. 

Ros. How smile .'' methinks thine eyes are 
wet with tears. 
Valt. (passing the hack of his hands across his 

eyes.) 
'Faith so they are ; well, well, but I smil'd too.i ; 
You heard the shouting. 

Ros. and Fred. Yes. 



40 



BASIL I A TRAGEDY. 



Vdlt. O had you seen it ! 

Prawn out in goodl}' ranks, tliero stood, our 

troops ; 
Hero, in tlie graceful state of manly youth, 
His dark face brighten'd with agen'rous smile. 
Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave, 
As tho' his soul, like an unsheathed sword. 
Had thro' them gloam'd, our noble gen'ral 

stood ; 
And to his soldiers, with lieart-raoving words 
The vet'ran showing', hisbravedcedsrehears'd; 
Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak, 
Beneath the shelter of some noble tree, 
In the grcon honours of its youthful prime. 
lios. How look'd; the veteran? 
Fait. I cannot tell thee ! 

At first he bore it up with cheerful looks. 
As one who fain would wear his honors bravely 
And gt-eet tho soldiers wilha comrade's face : 
But when Count Basil, in such movingspeech. 
Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops 
Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance 

chang'd ; 
High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been 
By inward strong emotion half convuls'd j 
Trembled his netiier lip ; he shed some tears : 
The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud ; 
Then liastil}- he brush'd the drops awaj'. 
And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear- 

chokd voice. 
As tho' he would some grateful answer make ; 
When back with doubly force the whelming 

tide 
Of passion came ; high o'er his hoary head 
His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect, 
In Basil's bosom hid his aged face, 
Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks 
A cry arose ; still louder shouts resound. 
I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat 
As it would strangle me ; such as I felt, 
I knew it well, some twenty years ago, 
When my good father shed his blessing on me : 
I hate to weep, and so 1 came away. 

Ros. (giving Valt. hit: hnntl.) And there, 
take thou my blessing for the tale. 
Hark how they shout again ! 'lis nearer now. 
This way they march. 

Martial Musick heard. Enter .Soldiers inarch- 
ing in order, bearing; Gkoffkv in triumph on 
their shoiddcrs. Alter tliem enter Basil ; the 
whole preceded by a baud of inusick. They 
cross over the stage, are joined by Ros. &c. 
and Exeunt. 

ScENK. II. 

Enter G.\ur.iF.cio and a Gkntlkman, talking as 
they enter. 

Gaur. So slight a tie as this we cannot 
trust : 
One day her influence rna}'^ detain him here. 
But love a feeble agent may bo found 
With the ambitious. 

Gent. And so you tiiiidi this boyish odd 
conceit 
Of bearing hom,e in triumph Vi-ithJiis troops 



I That aged soldier, will your purpose serve ? 
Gaur. Yes, I will make it serve ; for tho' 
my prmce 
Is little scrupulous of right and wrong, 
I have possess'd his mind, as tlu)' it were 
A flagrant insult on his princely state, 
To honour thus the man he has neglected, 
Which makes him relish, with a keener taste, 
My purpos'd scheme. Come let us fall to 

work. 
With all their warm heroick feelings rous'd, 
We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny. 
Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite. 
Thanks to his childish love, wliich has so well 
Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools. 
Gent. Ah ! but those feelings he has wak'd 
within them. 
Are gen'rous feelings, and endear himself. 
Gaur. It matters not ; tho' gen'rous in their 
nature. 
They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end ; 
And he who teaches men to thnik, tho' 

nobly. 
Doth raise within their minds a busy judge 
To scan his actior>s. Send thine agents forth,, 
And sound it in their ears how much Count 

Basil 
Affects all difhcult and desp'rtate service. 
To raise Ids fortunes by some daring stroke ; 
Having unto the Emp'rour pledg'd nis word,. 
To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave : 
For which intent he fills their simple minds 
With idle tales of glory and renewal ; 
Using their warm attachment to himself 
For most unworthy ends. 
This is the busy time : go forth, my friend ;, 
Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups 
Around their ev'ning cups. Ther(>, spare no 

cost, {gives him a. purse.) 
Observe their words, sec how the poison 

takes. 
And then return again. 

Gdit. I will, my lord. 

(Exeunt severally.. • 

Scene III. a suite op grand apart- 
ments, WITH their wide DOORS 
THROWN OPEN, LIGHTED UP WITH 
LAMPS, AND FILLED WITH COMPANY IN 

MASKS. 

Enter several Masks, and pass through the first 
apartment to the other rooms. 1'lien enter 
Basil in the disguise of a wounded soldier.' 

Bas. (alone.) Now am I in the region of 

deligiit ! 
Within the blessed compass of tliese walls 
She is ; the gay light of those blazing lamps. 
Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor 
Is with her footsteps press'd> E'en now, 

perhaps, 
Amidst that motley rout she plays her part: 
']'her<' will I go ; she cannot be couceal'd ; 
For but the flowing of her graceful robe 
Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



41 



Tho' in a thousand masks. Ye homely 
weeds, — {looking at his habit.) 

Which half conceal, and half declare my state. 
Beneath your kind disguise, O! letme prosper, 
And boldly take the privilege ye give : 
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side ; 
Thus-, near her face my list'ning ear incline 
And feel her soft breath fan my glov/ing cheek, 
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too I 
May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall ! 
This once, O ! serve me well, and ever after 
Ye shall be treasurd like a monarch's robes ; 
Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept ; 
And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye. 
And gazing wistfully, this night recall. 
With all its past delights. — But yonder moves 
A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe ; 
It moves not like the rest — it must be she ! 
{Goes hastily into another apartment, andmix- 
es icith the inashs.) 

Enter RosiNBKRG, fantastically dressed, with a 
willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets, 
and torn letters fluttering round his neck ; 
pursued by a group of masks from one of the 
inner apartments, who hoot at him, and push 
him about as he enters. 

1st Mask. Away, thou art a saucy jeering 
knave. 
And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love. 

Ros. Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me : 
I am a right true servant of the fair ; 
And as this woeful chaplet on my brow. 
And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote, 
A poor abandon'd lover, out of place ; 
With any lover ready to engage, 
Who will enlist me in her loving service. 
Of a convenient kind my talents are. 
And to all various humours may be shap'd. 

2d Mask. What canst thou do ? 

3d Mask. Ay, what besides offending ? 

Ros. O 1 I can sigh so deeply, look so sad. 
Pule out a piteous tale on bended knee ; 
Groan like a ghost ; so very wretched be. 
As would delight a tender lady's heart 
But to behold. 

1st Mask. Poo, poo, insipid fool ! 

Ros. But sliould my lady brisker mettle 
own, 
And tire of all those gentle dear delights, 
Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent — 
As whether such a fair one (some dear friend) 
Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the sofl 

maid. 
With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick, 
Have greatest cause of delicate distress; 
Or \,'hetlier — 

1st Mask. Go, too bad thou art indeed 1 
{aside.) Hov.' could he knov/ I quarell'd with 
the Count ? 

2d Mask. Wilt thou do nothing for thy 
lady's fame ? 

Ros. Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree 
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands 

bound : 
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks ; 
Odes to her eye ; 'faith ev'ry wart and mole 
5 



That spots her snt-wy skin, shall have its 

sonnet ! 
I'll make love posies for her thimble's edge, 
Rather than please her not. 

3d Mask. But for her sake what dangers 

wilt thou brave .' 
Ros. In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers 
less 
Than other service, and v/cre something loth 
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance; 
But if she'll wisely manage this alone, 
As maids have done come o'er the wall herself, 
And meet me fairly on the open plain, 
I will engage her tender steps to aid 
In all annoyance of rude brier or stone, 
Or crossing rill, some half- foot wide, or so, 
Which that fair lady should unaided pass. 
Ye gracious pow'rs forbid ! I will defend 
Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful 
buz — 
4th Mask. Such paltry service suits thee 
best indeed. 
What maid of spirit would not spurn thee 
from her ? 
Ros. Yes, to recall me soon, siiblime Sul- 
tana ! 
For I can stand the burst of female passion, 
Fii'li change of humour and affected storm ; 
B'i scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent, 
Fecall'd, caress'd chid, and disgrac'd again; 
And say what maid of spirit would forego 
The bliss of one to exercise it thus ? 
O : I can bear ill treatment like a lamb ! 
4th Mask, {heating him.) Well, bear it then, 

thou hast deserv'd it well. 
Ros. 'Zounds, lady ! do not give such 
heavy blows ; 
I'm not your husband, as belike you guess. 
5th Mask. Come, lover, I enlist thee for 
my swain ; 
Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows, 
Nor thus assume my rights. 

Ros. Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress 

prove .'' 
5th Mask. Such as thou wouldst, such as 
thy genius suits ; 
For since of universal scope it is. 
All women's humour shalt thou find in me. 
I'll gently soothe thee with such winning 

smiles — 
To nothing sink thee with a scornful fi-ov.'n : 
Tease thee with peevish and affected freaks ; 
Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy 

pate ; 
But still between the v/hil'-^s I'll careful be, 
In feigned admiration of thy parts. 
Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien, 
To bind thy giddy soul with flatt'ry's charm; 
For well thou know'st that flatt'ry ever is 
The tickling spice,, the pungent seasoning 
Which makes this motley dish of monstrous 

scraps 
So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste. 
Thou canst not leave, tho' violent in extreme. 
And most vexatious in her teasing moods. 
Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul. 
Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd 



42 



BASIL ! A TRAGEDY. 



Thou hatlst a pretty leg. 

Ros. Marry, thou liast the better of me there. 
5th Mask. And more ; I'll pledge to thee 
my honest word, 
That when your noble svvainship shall bestow 
More faithful homage on the simple maid, 
Who loves you with sincerity and truth, 
Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant, 
Who mocking leads you like a trammelFd ass, 
My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside, 
And such a one become. 

Ros. Well spoke, brave lady; I will follow 
thee. 
{follotcs her to the corner of the stage.) 
Now on my life, these ears of mine I'd give, 
To have but one look of that little face. 
Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court 
To keep the fools in awe . Nay , nay , unmask : 
I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes, 
A short and saucy nose : now pri'thee do. 

{iimnasking.) 
Mb. (unmasking.) Well, hast thou guess'd 

me right ? 
Roj. (bowing loic.) Wild freedom, chang'd 
' to most profound respect. 
Doth make an awkward booby of me now. 
Mb. I've join'd your frolick with a good 
intent. 
For much I wish'd to gain your private ear. 
The time is precious, and I must be short. 
Ros. On me your slightest word more pow'r 
will have, 
Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration. 
Thou art the only one of all thy sex. 
Who wear'st thy years with such a winning 

grace, 
Thou art the moreadmir'd the more thoufads't. 
Mb. I thank your lordship for these courte- 
ous words ; 
But to my purpose— You are Basil's friend : 
Be friendly to him then, and warn iiim well 
This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay ; 
For if he does, there's mischiefwaits him here 
May prove the bane of all his future days. 
Remember this, I nmst no longer stay. 
God bless vour friend and you ; I love you 
both. Exit. 

Ros. (alone.) What may this warning mean ? 
I had my fears. 
There's something hatching which I know 

not of. 
I've lost all spirit for this masking now. 

(throwing away his papers and his willows.) 
Away, ytTscraps ! 1 have no need of you. 
I would I knew what garment Basil \vears : 
I watch'd him, yet he did escape my siglit; 
But I must search again and find him out. 

[Exit. 

Enter Basil niuc hagitated, with his mask in 
his hand. 
Bas. In vain I've sought her,follow'd ev'ry 
form 
Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace : 
I've hsten"d to the tone of ev'ry voice ; 
I've watch'd the entrance of each female 
mask ; 



My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare, 
With the imagin'd rustling of her robes, 
At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night, 
How art thou spent ! where are thy promis'd 

joys ? 
How much of thee is gone ! O spiteful fate ! 
Yet within the compass of these walls 
Somewhere she is, altho', tome she is not. 
Some other eye doth gaze upon her form, 
Some other ear doth listen to her voice ; 
Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss 
My spiteful stars deny. 

Disturber of my soul ! what veil conceals thee? 
What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour .' 
O heav'ns and earth ! where art tliou.' 

Enter a Mask in the dress of a female conjurer. 

Mask. Methinks thou art impatient, valiant 
soldier : 
Thy wound doth gall thee sorely ; is it so .' 
Bas. Away, away, 1 cannot fool with thee. 
Mask. I have some potent drugs may ease 
thy smart. 
Where is thy wound .' is't here .-" 

(^wintingto the handagc on his arm.) 

Bas. Poo, poo, begone ! 

Thou canst do nought — 'tis in my head, my 

heart — 
'Tis ev'ry where, where medicine cannot cure. 
Mash. If wounded in the heart, it is a 
wound 
Which some ungrateful ffiir one hath inflic- 
ted, 
And I may conjure something for thy good. 
Bas. Ah ! if thou couldst ! what, must I 

fool with thee .' 
Mask. Thou must awhile, and be examin'd 
too. 
What kind of woman did the wicked deed .' 
Bas. I cannot tell thee. In her presence 
still 
My mind in such a wild delight hath been, 
I could not pause to picture out her beauty, 
Yet naught of woman e'er was form'd so fair. 
Mask." Art thou a soldier, and no weapon 
bear'st 
To send her wound for wound ? 

Bas. Alas ! she shoots from such a hopeless 
height, 
No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far. 
None but a prince may dare. 
Mask. But, if thou hast no hope, thou hast 

no love. 
Bas. I love, and. yet in truth I had noliope, 
But that she might at least v.-itli some good 

will. 
Some gentle pure regard, some secret kind- 
ness. 
Within her dear remembrance give me place. 
This was my all of hope, but it is flown: 
For she regards me not; despises, scorns me : 
Scorns. I must say it too, a noble heart, 
That would have bled for her. 

(Mask, discovering herself to be "Victoria by 
speaking in her true voice.) O ! no, 
she does not. 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



43 



[Exit hastily in confusion. 
Bos. (stands for a vwment rivettcd to the 
spot, then holds up both his hands in 
an ecstacy). 
It is herself! it is her blessed self! 
O ! what a fool am I, that had no power 
To follow her, and urge th' advantage on. 
Begone, unmanly fears ! I must be bold. 

Exit after her. 

A Dance of Masks. 
Enter Duke and Gauriecio, unmasked. 
Duke. This revelry, methinks, goes gaily 
on. 
The hour is late, and yet your friend returns 
not. 
Gaur. He will return ere long — nay, there 
he comes. 

Enter Gentleman. 
Duke. Does all go well .' (going close vp to 

him.) 
Gent. All as your grace could wish. 

For now the poison woriis, and the stung sol- 
diers 
Rage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled 

eyes, 
Swear vengeance on the chief who would be- 
tray them. 
That Frederick too, the discontented man 
Of whom your highness was so lately told, 
Swallows the bait, and does his part most 

bravely. 
Gauriecio counsel'd well to keep him blind, 
Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul ! 
He is so fiery he had spurn'd us else, 
And ruin'd all the plot. 

Duke. Speak softly, friend — I'll hear it all 
in private. 
A gay and careless face we now assume. 
Duke, Gaur. and Gent, retire into the inner 
apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily to 
the different masks as the^i puss them. 

Re-enter Victoria followed by Basil. 
Vict. Forbear, my lord; these words of- 
fend mine ear. 
Bas. Yet let me but this once, this once 
offend, 
Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me ; 
And if my words against all prudence sin, 
O ! hear tliem, as the good of heart do list 
To the wild ravings of a soul distraught. 

Vict. If I indeed should listen to thy words. 
They must not talk of love. 

Bus. To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee 
speak. 
To claim the soft attention of thine eye, 
I'd be content to talk of any thing. 
If it were possible to be with thee, 
And think of aught but love. 

Vict. I fear, my lord, you have too much 
presum'd 
On those unguarded words, which were in 

truth 
Utter'd at unawares, with little heed. 
And urge their meaning far beyond the right. 



Bas. I thought, indeed, that they were 
kindly meant, 
As tho' thy gentle breast did kindly feel 
Some secret pity for my hopeless pain. 
And. would not pierce with scorn, uno-en'rous 

scorn, 
A heart so deeply stricken. 

Vict. So far thou'st read it well. 
Bas. Ha ! have I well ? 

Thou dost not hate me then ? 

Vict. My father comes ; 

He were displeas'd if he should see thee thus. 
Bas. Thou dost not hate me, then .' 
Vict. Away ! lie '11 be displeased — I cannot 

say— 
Bas. Well, let him come : it is thyself i 
fear ; 
For did destruction thunder o'er my head. 
By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir, 
Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul ! 
Thou dost not hate me .' 

Vict. Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot 
hate thee. 

(breaks from him and exit.) 
Bas. (Alone.) Thou canst not hate me ! no, 
thou canst not hate me ! 
For I love thee so well, so passing well, 
With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly, 
That it were sinful not to pay me back 
Some small, some kind return. 

Enter Mirando dressed like Cupid. 

Mir. Bless thee, brave soldier. 
Bas. What say'st thou, pretty child I what 
playful fair 
Has deck'd thee o>it in this fantastick guise .-' 
Mir. It was Victoria's self; it was the 

princess. 
Bas. Thou art her fav'rite, then ? 
Mir. They say I am r 

And now, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, 

soldier, 
I think in very truth she loves me M'ell. 
Such merry little songs she teaches me — 
Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest, 
Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals, 
And lifts the cov'ring so, to look upon me. 
And oftentimes I fein as tho' I slept ; 
For then her warm lips to my cheek she lays, 
And pats me softly with her fair white hands ; 
And then I laugh, and thro' mine eyelids peep, 
And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat; 
And then we so do laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
Bas. What ! does she even so, thou happi- 
est child .'' 
And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so 

dearly .-' 
Delicious urchin ! I will kiss thee too. 
(takes him eagerly up in his arms, and kisses 
him.) 
Mir. No, let me down, thy kisses are so 
rough. 
So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so. 
Bas. Sweet boy, where is thy chamber .■' by 

Victoria's .' 
Mir. Hard by her own. 



44 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Bos. Then will I come beneath thy window 
soon : 
And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing, 
To lull thee to thy rest. 

JJir. O no, thou must not ! 'tis a frightful 
place ; 
It is the church-yard of the neighb'ring dome. 
The princess loves it for the lofty trees, 
Whose spreading branches shade her chamber 

walls : 
So do not I ; for when 'tis dark o'nights. 
Goblins howl there, and ghosts rise thro' the 

ground. 
I hear them many a time when I'm a bed. 
And hide beneath the clothes my cow'ring 

head. 
O ! is it not a frightful thing, my lord, 
To sleep alone i' the dark .■" 

Bas. Poor harmless child ! thy prate is 
wondrous sweet. 

Enter a group of Masks. 
1st Mask. What dost thou here, thou little 
truant boy ? 
Come play thy part with us. 

Masks place Mirando in the middle, and range 
themselves round him. 

SONG.— A GLEE. 

Child, with many a childish wile, 
Timid look, and blushing smile, 
Downy wings to steal thy way, 
Gilded bow, and quiver gay. 
Who in thy simple mien would trace 
The tyrant of the human race ? 

Who is he whose flinty heart 

Hath not felt the flying dart ? 

Who is he that from the wound 

Hath not pain and pleasure found ? 

Who is he that hath not shed 

Curse and blessings on thy head ? 

Ah Love ! our weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, 

A restless life have they who wear thy chain ! 

Ah Love ! o\ir weal, our woe, our bliss, our bane, 

Morehaplessstillare they who never felt thy pain ! 

Ml the vtasks dance round Cupid. Then enter 
a hand of satyrs, who frighten uicay Love and 
his votaries ; and conclude the scene, dancing 
in a grotesque manner. 



ACT IV. 
Scene I. — the street before basil's 

LODGINGS. 

Enter Rosinberg and two Officers. 
Ros. {speaking as he enters. ) Unless we find 

him quickly, all is lost. 
1st Off. His very guards, methinks, have 
left their post 
To join the mutiny. 

Ros. {knocking very loud.) Holla ! who's 
there within .'' confound this door ! 
It will not yield. O for a giant's strength ! 
Holla, holla, within ! will no one hear .' 
Enter a Porter from the house. 
Ros. {eagerly to the Porter.) Is he return'd ? 
is he return'd not yet ! 



Thy face doth tell me so. 

Port. Not yet, my Lord. 

Ros. Then let him ne'er return ! 

Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have their way ! 
I'll search for him no more. 

Port. He hath been absent all the night, my 
lord. 

Ros. I know he hath. 

2d Off. And yet 'tis possible 

He may have enter'd by the secret door ; 
And now perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd, 
Is dead to ev'ry sound. 
(Ros. without speaking, rushes into the house 

and the rest follow him.) 

Enter Basil. 

Bas. The blue air of the morning pinches 
keenly. 
Beneath her window all the chilly night, 
I felt it not. Ah ! night has been my day ; 
And the pale lamp which from her chamber 

gleam'd 
Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent 
Than the red burning east. 

Re-enter Rosinberg, &c. from the house. 
Ros. Himself! himself! He's here! he's 
here i O Basil ! 
What friend at such a time could lead thee 
forth ? 
Bas. What is the matter which disturbs you 

thus .' 
Ros. Matter that would a wiser man disturb. 
Treason's abroad : thy men have mutinied. 

Bas. It is not so ; thy wits have mutinied, 
And left their sober station in thy brjiin. 
1st Off'. Indeed, my lord, he speaks jn sober 
earnest. 
Some secret enemies have been employ'd 
To fill your troops with strange imaginations. 
As tho' their gen'ra! would, for selfish gain. 
Their gen'rous valour urge to des'prate deeds. 
All to a man assembled on the ramparts. 
Now threaten vengeance, and refuse to march. 
Bas. What! think they vilely of me.-" threaten 
too! 
O ! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought ! 
Didst thou attempt {to Ros.) to reason with 

their folly .' 
Folly it is; baseness it cannot be. 

Ros. Yes, truly, I did reason with a storm, 

And bid it cease to rage. 

Their eyes look fire on him who questions 

them : 
The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath 
Sound dreadful thro' the dark extended ranks, 
Like subterraneous grumblings of an earth- 
quake. 
^ ■- ■_ — The venireful hurricane 



Does not with such fantastick writhings toss. 
The wood's green boughs, as does convulsive 

rage 
Their forms with frantic gestures agitate. 
Around the chief of hell such legions throng'.^ 
To brino- back curse and discord on creation. 
Bas. Nay, they are men, altho' impassion'd 

ones. 
I'll ofo to them — 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



45 



Ros. And we will stri nd by thee. 

My sword is thine against ten thousand strong, 
If it should come to this. 

. Bas. No,. never, never ! 

There is no mean : I with my soldiers must 
Or their commander or their victim prove. 
But are my officers all staunch and faithful .'' 

Ros. All but that devil, Frederick—^ — 
He, disappointed, left his former corps, 
Where he, in truth, had been too long neg- 
lected. 
Thinking he should all on the sudden rise. 
From Basil's well-known love of valiant men ; 
And now, because it still must be deferr'd, 
He thinks you seek fromenvy to depress him, 
And burns to be reveng'd. 

Bas. Well, well^ — ^Tliis grieves me too — 
But let us go. 

Scene II. — the ramparts of the town. 

The Soldiers are discovered, drawn up in a dis- 
orderly manner, hollaing and speaking big, and 
clashing their arms tumultuously. 

1st Sol. No, comrade, no; hell gape and swal- 
low me. 
If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders ! 
2d Sol. Huzza ! brave comrads ! Who says 

otherwise .-' 
'3d Sol. No one, huzza! confound all treach'- 
rous leaders ! 
{The soldiers huzza and clash their arms.) 
5th Sol. Heav'n dart its fiery lightning on 
his head ! 
We're men, we are not cattle to be slaugh- 
ter'd ! 
2d Sol. They who do long to caper Mgh in 
air, 
?nto a thousand bloody fragments blown, 
May follow our brave gen'ral. 

1st Sol. Curse his name ! 

s I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves 
I' have crack 'd ! 

2d Sol. We will command ourselves: for 

Milan, comrades. 
5tk Sol. Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, 
huzza. 
{Ml the Soldiers cast up their caps in the air 
and huzza.) 

2d Sol. Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits 
us there. 
And easy service : keep good hearts, my 

soldiers ! 
The gen'ral comes, good hearts ! no flinching, 

boys'! 
Look bold and fiercely: we're the masters now. 
( They all clash their arms and put on a fierce 
threatening aspect to receive their general, 
telle now enters, followed by Rosinburg and 
Officers. Basil walks clo?e along the front 
ranks of the Soldiers, looking at lihcm very 
steadfastly ; then retires a few paces back, 
and raising his arm, speaks with a very full 
loud voice.) 

Bas. How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus, 
Assembled here unsummon'd by command.'' 
.{A confused murmur is heard amongst the Sol- 
diers; spmc of them call nut.) 



But we ourselves command : we wait no or- 
ders. 
{Jl confused noise of voices is beard, and one 

louder than the rest calls out) 
Must we be butcher'd for that we are brave ? 
{A loud clamour and, clashing of arms, then 

several voices call out.) 
Damn hidden treach'ry! wc- defy thy orders. 

Fred'rick shall lead us now 

(Others call out) 
We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march. 
Bas. (waving his hand,and beckoning them 
to be silent, speaks with a very loud voice.) 
Yes, march where'er ye list : for Milan 
march. 
Sol. Hear him,. hear him I 

, (The murmur ceases- — a short pause.) 
Bas. Yes, march where'er ye list; for Milan 
march : 
But as banditti, not as soldiers go ; 
For on this spot of earth I will disband, 
And take from you the rank and name of 

soldiers. 
{A great clamour amongst the ranlis — some 

call out) 
What 'wear we arms for .' 

(Others call out) 
No, he dares not do it. 
(One voice. very loud) 
Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil ! 
(Several of the Soldiers brandish their arms, 
and threaten to attack him ; the Officers gather 
round Basil, and draw their swords to de- 
fend him.) 

Bas. Put up your swords,: my friends, it 
must not be. 
I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone. 
Ros. What, shall we calmly stand and see 

thee butchered ^ 
Bas. (very earnestly.) Put, up, my friends. 
(Officers still persist.) What! are you 
rebels too .' 
Will no one here his gen'ral's voice obey .'' 
I do command you to put up your swords. 
Retire, and at a distance wait th' event. 
Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine. 
(Officers retire, very unwillingly. Basil waves 
them off with his hand till, they are all gone, 
then walks up to the front of his Soldiers, 
who still, hold themselves in a threatening 
posture.) 
Soldiers ! we've fought together in the field. 
And bravely fought: i' the face of horrid 

<leath. 
At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on; 
Nor do I know the man of all your bands, 
That ever poorly from the trial shrunk. 
Or yielded to the foe contended space. 
Am I the meanest then of all my troops. 
That thus ye think, with base unmanly 

threats. 
To move me now.-' Put up those paltry 

weapons ; 
They edgeless are to him who fears them not ; 
Rocks have been shaken from the solid base ; 
But what shall nxove a firm and dauntless 
mind ? 



46 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Put up your swords, or dare the threaten'd 
deed — 

Obey, or murder me. 

(j1 confused tnurmur — some of the soldiers call 

out) 
March us to Milan, and we will obey tlicc. 

{Others call out) 
Ay, march us there, and be our leader still. 
Bas. Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command 

ye; 

And where I do command, there shall you go. 
But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate 
Een half a furlong from your destind way, 
To seize the golden booty of the east. 
Think not to gain, or temporise with me ; 
For should I this day's mutiny survive. 
Much a3 I've lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find 

me 
Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance ; 
Tremendous, cruel, military vengeance. 
There is no moan — a desperate game ye play ; 
Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me. 
Do as ye will, but do it manfully. 
He is a coward who doth threaten me : 
The man who slays me, but an angry soldier ; 
Acting in passion, like the frantick son. 
Who struck his sire and wept. 

{Soldiers call out) It was thyself who sought 
to murder us. 

1st Sol. You have unto the Emp'rour 
pledg'd your faith, 
To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service : 
You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood, 
And we have shed our dearest blood for J'ou. 

Bas. Hear me, my soldiers 

2d Sol. No, hear liim not, he means to coz- 
en you. 
Fred'rick will do you right 

( Endeavoming to stir up a noise and confu- 
sion amongst them.) 

Bas. What cursed fiend art thou, cast out 
from hell 
To spirit up rebellion .'' damned villain ! 
{Seizes upon 2nd soldier, di-ags him out from 

the ranks, and ivrests his anr^s from him ; 

then takes a pistol from his side, and holds 

it to his head.) 
Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be 

silent ; 
For if thou utfrest but a single word, 
A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech, 
I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth, 
To bellow with the damn'd ! 

{The soldiers keep a dead silence— after a 
pause, Basil resumes his speech.) 

Listen to me, my soldiers. 

You say that I am to the emp'rour pledg'd 

To lead you foremost in all desp'r.ate service, 

For now you call it not the path of glory ; 

Andif in this I have offended you, 

I do indeed repent me of the crime. 

But new from battles, where my native troops 

So bravely fought, 1 felt me proud at heart. 

And boasted of you, boasted foolishly. 

I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield 

To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms. 

I swore the meanest man of all my troops 



Would never shrink before an armed host, 
If honour bade him stand. My royal master 
Smil'd at the; ardour of my heedless words, 
And promis'd, when occasion claim'd our 

arms, 
To put them to the proof. 
BrH ye do peace, and ease, and booty love, 
Safe and ignoble service — be it so — 
Forgive me tliat I did mistake you thus, 
But do not earn with savage mutiny, 
Your own destruction,. We'll for Pavia 

march. 
To join the royal army near its walls; 
And there with blushing forehead will I plead, 
That ye are men with warlike service worn, 
Requiring ease and rest. Some other chief, 
Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's 

sound. 
Will in your rearward station head you tlien, 
And so, my friends, we'll part. As for my- 
self, 
A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks, 
I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fel- 
lows. 
Than be the leader of a sordid band, 

{Jl great murmur rises amongst the ranks, 
soldiers call mtt) 
We will not part I no, no, we will not part ! 

(Jill call out together) 
We will not part ! be thou our gen'ral still. 

Bas. How can I be your gen'ral .' ye obey 
As caprice moves you ; I must be obey'd 
As honest men against themselves perform 
A sacred oath. — 

Some other chief will more indulgent prove — 
You're weary grov/n — I've been too hard a 
master — 
Soldiers. Thyself, and only thee, will we 

obey. 
Bas. But if you follow me, yourselves ye 
pledge 
Unto no easy service: — hardships, toils, 
The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight 
Will be your portion ; and when all is o'er. 
Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be 
Home to return again, a poor brave soldier. 
How say ye now ? I spread no temptinglure — 
A better fate than this, I promise none. 
Soldiers. We'll follow Basil. 
Bas. Whattokenof obedience will ye give.' 
{Jl deep pause.) 
Soldiers, lay down your arms! 

{Tlieii all lay down their arms.) 
If any here are weary of the service, 
Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall 

have 
A free discharge, and pas&port to their homes; 
And from my scanty fortune I'll make good 
The well-earn'd pay their royal master owes 

them. 
Let those who follow me their arms resume. 
( They all resume their arrn^.) 
{Basil holding up his hands.) High heaven be 

prais'd ! 
I had been griev'd to part with you, my sol- 
diers. 
Here is a letter from my gracious master, 



BASIL . A TRAGEDY. 



47 



With offers of preferment in the north, 
Most high preferment, which I did refuse. 
For that I would not leave my gallant troops. 
(Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst 
them.) 
A great coviviotion amongst the soldiers; many 
of them quit their ranks, and crowd about him, 
calling out) 
Our gallant gen'ral ! 

(Otheis call out) 
We'll spend our hearts' blood for thee, noble 
Basil ! 
Bas. And so you thought me false ? this 
bites to the quick ! 
My soldiers thought mc false ! 
{They all quit their ranks, and croivd eagerly 
urmaid him. Basil, waving them off with his 
hands.) 
Away, away, you have disgusted me.' 

(Soldiers retire to their ranks.) 
'Tis well^ — retire, and hold yourselves pre- 

par'd 
To march upon command , nor meet again 
Till you are summon'd by the beat of drum. 
Some secret enemy has tamper'd with you, 
For yet I will not think that in these ranks 
There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart. 
(The soldiers begin to march off, and musick 

strikes up.) 
Bas. (holding up his hand.) Cease, cease, 
triumphant sounds. 
Which our brave fathers, men without re- 
proach, 
Rais'd in the hour of triumph ! but this hour 
To us no glory brings — 
Then silent be your march — ere that agam 
Our steps to glorious strains like these s'hall 

move, 
A day of battle o'er our heads must pass, 
And blood be shed to wash out this days' 
stain. 
[ExEUKT soldiers, silent and dejected 

Enter Fredrick, who starts back on seeing 
Basil alone. 

Bas. Advance, lieutenant ; wherefore shrink 
ye back ? 
I've even seen you bear your head erect, 
And front your man tho' arm'd with frowning- 
death. 
Have you done aught the valiant should not 

do.? 
I fear you have. (Fred looks confused.) 

With secret art, and false insinuation, 
The simple untaught soldiers to seduce 
From their sworn duty, might become the 

base. 
Become the coward well : but O ! what vil- 
lain 
Had the dark pow'r t' engage thy valiant v.'orth 
In such a work as this ! 

Fred. Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise 
On a neglected pitiful subaltern .■■ 
It were a libel on his royal master; 
A foul reproach upon fair fortune cast. 
To call me valiant : 
And surely he has been too much their debtor 



To mean them this rebuke. 

Bas. Is nature then so sparing of her gifts. 
That it is wonderful when they are found 
Where fortune smiles not .-' 
Thou art by nature brave, and so am I ; 
But in those distant ranks moves there not 
one (Pointing off the stage. 

Of high ennobled soul, by nature form"d 
A hero and commander, who will yet 
In his untrophied grave forgotten lie 
With meaner men .' I dare be sworn there 
does. 
Fred. What need of w'ords '' I crave of thee 
no favour, 
I have offended 'gainst arm'd law, offended, 
And shrink not from my doom. 

Bas. I know thee well, I know thou fear"st 
not death ; 
On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast 
Thou wilt engage him : and, if thy proud soul. 
In sullen obstinacy, scorns all grace, 
E"en be it so. But if with manly gratitude 
Thou truly canst receive a brave man's par- 
don, 
Thou hast it freely. 

Fred. It must not be. I've been thine ene- 
my— 
I've been unjust to thee — 

Bas. I know tliou hast ; 

But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all. 
Fred. My lord ! my gen'ral ! Oh I cannot 
speak ! 
I crmnot live and be the wretch I am. 

Bas. But thou canst live and be an honest 
man 
From errour turn'd, — canst live and be my 
friend. 

(Raising Fred, from the groujid.) 
Forbear, forbear ! see where our friends ad- 
vance : 
They must not think thee suing for a pardon ; 
That would disgrace us both. Yet, ere they 

come, 
Tell me, if that thou mayst v/ith honour tell, 
What did seduce thee from tliy lo3'al faith .' 
Fred. No cunning traitor did my faith at 
tempt. 
For then I had withstood him: but of late, 
I know not how — a bad and restless spirit 
Has work'd within my breast, and made me 

v/rctched. 
I've lent mine ear to foolish idle tales. 
Of very zealous, tho' but recent friends. 
Bas. Softly, our friends approach — of this 
again. [Exeust. 

Scene III. — an apartment in basil's 

LODGINGS. 

Eater Basil and Rosikisekg. 

Ros. Tliank heaven I am now alone v.'lth 

thee. 
Last nio-ht I sought thee with an anxious 

mind, 
And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. — 
There 's treason in this most deceitful court, 



48 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



Againet thee plotting; and tliis-morning's tu- 
mult 

Hatli been its damn'd effect. 

lias. Nay, nay, my friend ! 

The nature of man's mind too well thou 
knovv'st. 

To judge as vulffar hoodwink'd statesmen do; 

Who. ever \vitii tlicir own poor wiles misled, 

Believe each popular tumult or commotion 

Must be the work of deep-laid policy. 

Poor. mean.mechanicksiHils. who little know 

A few short words of onergetick force. 

Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd. 

The animating sight of something noble. 

Some fond trait of the mem'ry linely wak'd, 

A sound, a simi)le song without design, 

In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions, 

All grand events, have ofl effected more 

Than dee]>pst cutining of their paltry art. 

Some drunken sohUer. eloquent with wine. 

Who loves not lighting, hatli harangued liis 
mates. 

For tliey in trutli somo hardships have en- 
dur'd : 

Wherefore in this should we suspect the court.' 
Ros. Ah ! tliere is sometliing, friend, in 
JMantna"s court, 

Will make the blackest trait of barefac'd trea- 
son. 

Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye. 
Bas^ Navi 'tis a weaknessin thee, Rosin- 
berg. 

Which makes thy mind so jealous and dis- 
trustful. 

Why should the duke be false .' 

Ros. Because he is a double, crafty prince — 

Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly. 

That he in some dark treaty is engagd. 

Eon with our master's enemy the Frank. 
Bas. And so thou think'st — 
Ros. Nay. hear me to the end. 

Last night that good and honourable dame. 

Noble Albini, with most friendly art. 

From tlie gay clam'rous throng my steps be- 
guil'd. 

Unmask'd before me. and with earnest grace 

Entreated me. if 1 were Basil's friend. 

To tell him hidden danger waits him here. 

And warn him earnestly this court to leave. 

She said- she lov'd thee much : and hadst tliou 
seen 

How anxiously she urg'd — 

Bag. {intrrrttptlng him.) By lioav'n and 
eartli, 

There is a ray of light breaks thro' thy tale. 

And 1 could ier.p like madmen in their freaks. 

So blessed is the gleam ! Ah! no, no. no I 

It cannot be ! alas, it cannot be ! 

Yet didst thou say she urg'd it earnestl}- .' 

Slie is a woman, who avoids all share 

In secret politicks ; one only charge 

Her int'rest claims, Victoria's guardian 
friend — 

And she would have me hence — it must be so. 

O ! would it were 1 how saidst tliou, gentle 
Rosinberg .' 

She urg'd it eamestlv — how did she ur^e it.' 



Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus, 
But tell me all her words ! What said she .' 
Ros. O Basil ! I could laugh to sw^ thy folly^ 
But tiiat thy weakness doth provoke me so. 
Most admirable, brave, deterinin'd man I 
So well, so lately tried, what art thou now ' 
A vain deceitful thought transports tliee thus. 
Thinkst thou — 

Bas. I will not tell thee what I think. 

Ros. But I can guess it well, and it deceives 
thee. 
Leave this detested place, this fatal court, 
Where dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin. 
A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence. 
Tlie time is critical. How wilt thou feel 
When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear, 
That brave Piscaro, and his royal troops, 
Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought. 
Whilst we. so near at hand, lay loitring here .' 
Bas. Thou dost disturb thy brain with fan- 
cied feijrs. 
Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice, 
Tliat one short day should be of all tills mo^ 

ment; 
And j'et this one short day will be to me 
Worth years of other time. 

Ros. Na}-, rather say, 

A day to darken all thy days beside. 
Confound the tatal beauty of that woman, 
Which hatli bewitch'd thee so I 

Bas. Tis most ungen'rous 

To push me thus with rough unsparing hand, 
Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly. 
It is unfriendly. 

Ros. God knows my heart ! I would not 
give thee pain ; 
But it disturbs me. Basil, vexes me. 
To see thee so entliralled by a women. 
! If she is fair, others are fair as she. 
i Some other face will like emotions raise. 
■ ^Vhen thou canst better play a lover's part : 
But for the present. — fye upon it, Basil ! 
I Bas. What, is it possible thou hast beheld, 
Hast tarried by her too, her converse shard, 
I Yet talk'st as tlio' she were a common lair one, 
I Such as a man may fancy and forget .' 
! Thou art not. sure, so dull and brutish grown: 
It is not so ; thou dost belie thy thoughts. 
And vainly try'st to gain me with tlie cheat. 
Ros. So tliinks each lover of tlie maid he 
loves. 
Yet. in their lives, some many maidens love. 
Fve on it ! leave this town, and be a soldier ! 
Bas. Have done, have done I whv dost thou 
bate me tlius .' 
Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosin- 
berg. 
AN hat claim liast thou mv actions to controul .' 
Ill Mantua leave when it is fit I should. 
Ros. Then, faitli ! 'tis fitting tliou shouldst 
leave it now ; 
Av. on the instant. 1st not desperation 
To Slav, and hazard ruin on thy fame. 
Tho'vet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure. 
No lover breathes without .' tliou hast no hope. 
Bas. What, dost thou mean — curse o" " ; 
paltry thought ^ 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



49 



That I should count and bargain with my 

heart, 
Upon the chances of unstinted favour, 
As httle souls their base-bred fancies feed ? 

! were I conscious that within her breast 

1 held some portion of her dear regard, 
Tho'-pent for life within a prison's walls. 
Where thro' my grate I yet might sometimes 

see 
E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun ; 
Tho' plac'd by fate where some obstructing 

bound, 
Some deep impassable between us roli'd, 
And I might yet from some high tow'ring 

cliff 
Perceive her distant mansion from afar, 
Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn ; 
Nay, tho' within the circle of the moon 
Some spell did fix her, never to return, 
And T might wander in the hours of night, 
And upward turn my ever-gazing eye, 
Fondly to mark upon its varied disk 
Some little spot tliat might her dwelling be ; 
My fond, my fixed lieart would still adore, 
And own no other love. Away, away ! 
How canst thou say to one who lovffs like me, 
Thou hast no hope .' 

Ros. But with such hope, my friend, how 

stand thy fears .'' 
Are they so well refin'd ? how wilt thou bear 
Ere long to hear, that some high-favour'd 

prince 
Has won her heart, her hand, has married her.-" 
Tho' now unshackled, will it always be ? 
Bas. By heav'n thou dost contrive but to 

torment, 
And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st ! 
There is malignity in what thou say'st. 

Ros. No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil, 
That fain would save thee from the yawning 

gulf. 
To which blind passion guides thy heedless 

steps. 
Bas. Go, rather save thyself 
From the weak passion which has seiz'd thy 

breast, 
T' assume authority with sage-like brow. 
And shape my actions by thine OM-n caprice. 
I can direct ra3'S(4Jf. 

Ros. Yes, do thyself, 

And let no artful woman do it for thee. 

Bas. I scorn thy thought : it is beneath my 

scorn : 
It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman ! 

! she has all the loveliness of heav'n 
And all its goodness to ! 

Ros. I mean not to impute dishonest arts, 

1 mean not to impute — 

Bas. No 'faith thou canst not. 

Ros. What, can I not ? their arts all women 
have. 
But now of this no more ; it moves thee 

greatly. 
Yet once again, as a most loving friend. 
Let me conjure thee, if thou prizcst honour, 
A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame, 
What noble spirits love, and well I know 




Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this 

place. 
And give thy soldiers orders for the march. 
Bas. Nay, since thou must assume it o'er 

me thus, 
Begen'ral, and command my soldiers too. 
Ros. What, hath this passion in so short a 

space, 
O ! curses on it ! so far chang'd thee, Basil, 
That thou dost take with such ungentle 

warmth. 
The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend ? 
Methinks'the beauty of a thousand maids 
Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my 

friend. 
My best, mine earliest friend ! 

Bas. Say kinsman rather ; chance has link'd 

us so : 
Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far ; 
No act of clioice did e'er unite our souls. 
Men most unlike we are ; our thoughts un- 
like ; 
My breast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of 

mine. 
Ros. Ah 1 have I then so long, so dearly 

lovd thee ; 
So often, with an elder brother's care. 
Thy childish rambles tended, sliar'd thy sports; 
Fili'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's 

task ; 
Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of 

strength ; 
With boastful pride thine early rise beheld 
In glory's paths, contented then to fill 
A second place, so I might serve with thee ; 
And say'st thou now, I am no friend of thine .' 
Well, be it so ; 1 am thy kinsman then, 
And by that title will I save thy name. 
From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will. 
I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick : 
And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign ; 
For thy unkindness makes me so indeed. 
It will be said that Basil tarried here 
To save his friend, for so they'll call me still; 
Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name 
For such a kindly deed. — 

CBasil walks up and down in great agitation, 
tkenstojjs, covers Ins face with his hands, and 
seems to he overcome. Rosinberg looks at 
him earnestly.) 

O blessed heav'n he weeps ! 
(Runs up to him, and catches him in his arms.) 

Basil ! I have been too hard upon thee. 
And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus .'' 

Bas. (in a convulsed broken voice.) I will 
renoiuice — I'll leave — 

Ros. What says my Basil .' 

Bas. I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat 
of bliss — 
This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain — 
Cast off at once my little span of joy — 
Be wretched — miserable — whate'erthou wilt — 
Dost thou forgive me .'' 

Ros. O m)' friend ! my friend ! 

1 love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee. 
I must be cruel to thee to be kind : 



60 



BASIL I A TRAGEDY. 



Each pang I see tliee feel strikes thro' my 

heart ; 
Then spare us botli, call up thy noble spirit, 
And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are 

ready — 
Let lis depart, nor lose another hour. 
(Basil shrinks from his arms, and looks at hivi 
icith somcichat of an upbraiding, at the same 
time a sorrowful look.) 
Bos. Nay, put mc not to death upon the 
instant ; 
I'll see her once aorain, and then depart. 
Ros. See her but once again, and thou art 
ruin'd ! 
It must not be — if tliou regardest me — 

Bus. Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast 

no mercy ! 
Ros. Ah I thou wilt bless me all thine after- 
life 
For what now seems to thee so merciless. 
Bas. (sitting dotcn very dejectedly.) Mine 
after-life ! what is mine after-life .' 
My day is clos'd ! the gloom of night is come ! 
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate. 
I've seen the last look of her heavenly e)^es ; 
I've heard the last sounds of her blessed 

voice ; 
I've seen her fair form from my sight depart : 
JVIy doom is clos'd ! 

Ros. (hanging over him tcith pity and affec- 
tion.) Alas ! my fi-iend ! 
Bas. In all her lovely grace she disappear'd. 
Ah ! little thought I never to return ! 

Ros. Why so desponding .'' think of warlike 
glory. 
The fields of fair renown are still before thee ; 
Who would not burn such noble fame to earn .' 
Bas. What now are arms, or fair renown to 
me ? 
Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while, 
Welcome rough war ; with all thy scenes of 
blood ; (starting from his seat.) 

Thv roaring tliunders, and thy clashing steel I 
Welcome once more ! what have I now to do 
But play the brave man o'er again, and die .' 

Enter Isabella. 

Isab. (to Bas.) My princess bids me greet 

you, noble Count : — 
Bas. (starting.) What dost thou say ? 
Ros. Damn this untimely message ! 

Isab. The princess bids me greet you, no- 
ble Count: 
In tlie cool grove, hai-d by tlie soutliern gate, 
She with her train — 

Bas. What, she indeed, herself.' 

Isab. Herself, my lord, and she requests to 

see j'ou. 
Bas. Thank heav'n for this ! I will be there 

anon. 
Ros. (taking hold of him.) Stay, stay, and 

do not be a madman still. 
Bas. Let go thy hold : what, must I be a 
brute, 
A very brute to please thee ? no, by heav'n ! 
(Breaks from him, and. Exit.) 



Ros. (striking his forehead.) All lost again ! 
ill fortune light upon her I 

(Turning eagerly to Isab.) 
And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here 
To make appointments, honourable dame .' 
Isab. Not so, my lord, you must not call it 
so : 
The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria 
Would have your noble gen'ral of her train, 
Ros. Confound these women, and their art- 
ful snares, 
Since men will be such fools ! 

Isab. Yes, grumble at our empire as you 

will- 
Eos. What, boast ye of it .' empire do ye 
call it ? 
It is your shame ! a short-liv'd tyranny, 
That ends at last in hatred and contempt. 
Isab. Nay, but some women do so wisely 
rule. 
Their subjects never from the yoke escape. 
Ros. Some women do, but they are rarely 
found. 
There is not one in all your paltry court 
Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task. 
"Faith ! of you all, not one, but brave Albini, 
And she disdains it — Good be with you, lady ! 

( Going.) 
Isab. O would I could but touch that stub- 
born heart ! 
How dearly should he pay for this hour's 
scorn ! [Exeunt sererally. 

Scene IV. a summer apartment in 

THE COTJNTRTj THE WINDOWS OF 
WHICH LOOK TO A FOREST. 

Enter Victoria in a hunting dress, followed by 
Albini and Isabella, speaking as they 
enter. 

Vict, (to Alb.) And so you will not shai-e 

our sport to-day .' 
.■ilb. My days of frolick should ere this be 
o'er, 
But thou, my charge, has kept me youthful 

still 
I should most gladly go ; but, since the dawn, 
A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart ; 
I cannot liunt to-day. 

Plct. Ill staj^ at home and nurse tliee, dear 

Albini. 
.4/6. No, no, tliou shalt not stay. 
Viet. Nay, but I will. 

I cannot follow to the cheerful horn 
Whilst thou art sick at home. 

'lib. Not very sick. 

Ratlier than thou shouldst stay, my gentle 

child, 
I'll mount my horse, and go e'en as I am. 
Vict. Nay, then I'll go, and soon return 
again. 
Meanwhile, do thou be careful of thyself. 
Isab. Hark, Hark I the shrill horns call us 
to the field : 
Your highness hears it .' (musick icithout.) 
Vict. Yc-s, my Isabella; 



BASIL I A TRAGEDY. 



61 



I hear it, and methinks e'en at the sound 
I vault already on my leathern seat, 
And feel the fiery steed beneath me shake 
His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth ; 
Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace, 
The low salute of gallant lords return, 
Wha waiting round with eager watchful eye. 
And reined steeds, the happy moments seize. 
O ! didst thou never hear, my Isabell, 
How nobly Basil in the field becomes 
His fiery courser's back? 

Isah. They say most gracefully. 

Mb. What, is the valiant Count not yet de- 
parted ? 
Vict. You would not have our gallant Ba- 
sil go 
When I have bid him stay ? not so, Albini. 
Mb. Fye ! reigns that spirit still so strongly 
in thee, 
Which vainly covets all men's admiration, 
And is to others cause of cruel pain.' 

1 would thou couldst subdue it 1 

Vict. My gentle friend, thoushouldst not be 

severe : 
For now in truth I love not admiration 
As I was wont to do ; in truth I do not. 
But yet, this once my woman's heart excuse. 
For there is something strange in this man's 

love, 

1 never met before, and I must prove it. 
Mb. Well, prove it then, be stricken too 

thyself, 
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell. 
Vict. O no ! that will not be ! 'twill peace 

restore : 
For after this, all folly of the kind 
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem ; 
And so I shall become a prudent maid, 
And passing wise at last. 

(musick heard icithout.) 
Hark, hark! again ! 
All good be with you ! I'll return ere long. 

[ExEDNT Victoria and Isabella. 
Mb. (sola.) Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with 

thee go. 
My most tormenting, and most pleasing 

charge ! 
Like vapour, from the mountain stream art 

thou. 
Which lightly rises on the morning air. 
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze, 
For ever varying, and for ever graceful. 
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind ; 
Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise ; 
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent : 
And yet these adverse qualities in thee, 
No dissonance, nor striking contrast make ; 
For still tjiy good and amiable gifts 
The sober dignity of virtue wear not, 
And such a 'witching mien thy follies shew, 
They make a very idiot of reproof, 
And §mile it to disgrace. — 
What shall I do with thee .'' — It grieves me 

much 
To hear Count Basil is not yet departed. 
When from the chace he comes, I'll watch 

his steps, 



And speak to him myself. — 

! I could hate her for that poor ambition 
Which silly adoration only claims. 

But that I well remember, in my youth 

1 felt the like — I did not feel it long : 

I tore it soon, indignant from my breast. 
As that which did degrade a noble mind. 

[Exit. 

Scene V. — a very beautiful grove 
IN the forest. 

Musick and horns heard afar off, whilst hunts, 
men and dogs appear passing over the stage, at 
agrcatdistance. Enter Vjctoria and Basil, 
as if just alighted from their horses. 
Vict, (speaking to attendants loithout.') Lead 
on our horses to the further grove, 

And wait us tliere. — 

(to Bas.) This spot so pleasing, and so fragrant 

'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear 
Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance. 
And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon; 
I love to tread upon it. 

Bas. O I I would quit the chariot of a god 
For such delightful footing ! 

Vict. I love this spot. 

Bas. It is a spot where one would live and 

die. 
Vict. See, thro' the twisted boughs of those 
high elms, 
Tlie sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play, 
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown. 
Is it not beautiful .' 

Bas. As tho' an angel, in his upward flight, 
Had left his mantle floating in mid air. 

Vict. Still most unlike a garment ; small 
and sever'd : 
(Turning round, and perceiving that he is gaz- 
ing at her.) 
But thou regard'st them not. 

Bas. Ah ! what should I regard, where 
should I gaze ? 
For in that far-shot glance, so keenly wak'd, 
That sweetly rising smile of admiration. 
Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is, 
Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene. 

Vict. Remember you have promis'd, gentle 
Count, 
No more to vex me with such foolish words. 
Bas. Ah ! wherefore should my tongue 
alone be mute .-' 
When every look and every motion tell. 
So plainly tell, and will not be forbid, 
That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee I 

('Victoria looks haughty and displeased.) 
Ah ! pardon me, I know not what I say. 
Ah! irown not thus! I cannot see thee frown. 
I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent: 
But O ! a reined tongue, and bursting heait, 
Are hard at once to bear. — Wilt thou forgive 
me .' 
Vict. We'll think no more of it ; we'll quit 
this spot ; 
I do repent me that I led thee here. 
But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend; 
Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm : 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent, 

I love to liaunt it still. (Basil !>taiis. 

Bas. His fiivrite path — a friend — here arm 

in arm — 

(^Gasping his hands, and raising them, to his 

head.) 
Then there is such a one ! 
(Drooping his head, and looking distractedly 
upon the ground.) 

I dream'd not of it. 
Vict, (pretending not to sec him.) That little 
lane, with woodbine all o'crgrown, 
He lov'd so well ! it is a fragrant path, 
Is it not, Count ? 

Bas. It is a gloomy one ! 

Vict. I have, my lord, been wont to think it 

cheerl'ul. 
Bas. I thought your highness meant to 

leave this spot .-' 
Vict. I do, and by this lane we'll take our 
way ; 
For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace, 
And listen'd to the woodlark's evening song. 
Bas. What, must I on his very footsteps go ? 
Accursed be the ground on which he trod ! 
Vict. And is Count Basil so uncourtly 
grown. 
That he would curse my brother to my face ? 
Bas. Your brother ! gracious God, is it your 
brother ? 
That dear, that loving friend of whom you 

spoke, 
Is he indeed your brother .' 

Vict. He is indeed, my lord. 

Bas. Then heaven bless him ! all good an- 
gels bless him ! 
I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him! 
I could — O what a foolish heart have I ! 
Walks up and do%on icith a hurried step, tossing 
about his arms in transport ; then stops short 
and runs up to Victoria.) 
Is it indeed your brother ? 

Vict. It is indeed : what thoughts disturb'd 

thee so.-" 
Bas. I will not tell thee ; foolish thoughts 
they were. 
Heav'n bless your brother ! 

Vict. Ay, heav'n bless him too ! 

I have but him; would I had two brave 

brothers. 
And thou wcrt one of them ! 

Bas. I would fly from thee to earth's ut- 
most bounds, 
Were I thy brother — 
And yet methinks, I would I had a sister. 
Vict. And wherefore would ye so .' 
Bas. To place her near thee, 

The soft companion of tliy hours to prove. 
And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me. 
Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares. 
Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war. 
Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore, 
Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan 

cheek. 
And kindly say, How does it fare with Basil .' 
Vict. No more of this — indeed there must no 



A friend's remembrance I will'ever bear thee. 
But see where Isabella this way comes : 
I had a wish to speak with her alone ; 
Attend us here, for soon will we return, 
And then take horse again. [Exit. 

Bas. {loohivg after her for some time.) See 
with what graceful steps she moves along, 
Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely ! 
If but the wind her ruffled garment raise. 
It twists it into some light pretty fold. 
Which adds new grace. Or should some 

small mishap. 
Some tangled branch, her fair attire derange, 
What would in others strange, or awkward 

seem, 
But lends to her some wild bewitching charm. 
See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm 
To pluck the dangling hedge-flow'r as she 

goes ; 
And now she turns her head as tho' she view'd 
The distant landscape ; now methinks she 

walks 
With doubtful ling'ring steps — will she look 

back ? 
Ah no ! yon thicket hides her from ray sight. 
Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still, 
Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last ! 
And yet she said she would remember me. 
I will believe it : Ah ! I must believe it. 
Or be the saddest soul that sees the light ! 
But lo, a messenger, and from the army ! 
He brings me tidings ; grant they may be 

good ! 
Till now 1 never fear'd what man might utter ; 
I dread his tale, God grant it may be good ! 

Enter Messengek. 

From tlie army .'' 

Mess. Yes, my lord. 

Bas. What tidings brings't thou .■' 

Mess. Th' Imperial army, under brave Pis- 
caro, 
Have beat the enemy near Pavia's walls. 
Bas. Ha ' have they fought ? and is the 

battle o'er.'' 
Mess. Yes, conquer'd ta'en the French king 
prisoner, 
Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman, 
Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword 
Till, being one amidst surrounding foes, 
His arm could do no more. 

Bas. What dost thou say .' who is made 
pris'ner .' 
What king did fight so well .' 

Mess. The king of France. 

Bas. Thou saidst — thy words do ring so in 

mine ears, 

I cannot catch their sense — the battle's o'er .•* 

Mess. It is my lord. Piscaro staid j^our 

coming. 

But could no longer stay. His troops were 

bold, 
Occasion press'd him, and they bravely 

fought — 
They bravely fought, my lord ! 

Bas. I hear, I hear thee. 

Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart 



BASIL t A TRAGEDY. 



53 



To hear they bravely fought ! — 
They bravely fought, whilst we lay ling'ring 
here. 

! what a fated blow to strike me thus I 
Perdition ! shame ! disgrace I a damned blot\'! 

Mess. Ten thousand of the enemy are slain ; 
We too have lost full many a gallant soul. 

1 view'd the closing armies from afar ; 
Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread, 
Which seem'd, alas ! when that the fight was 

o'er, 
Like the wild marshes' crop of stately reeds, 
Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me ! 
When to the field I came, what dismal sights ! 
What waste of life ! what heaps of bleeding 
slain ! 
Bas. Would I v/ere laid a red, disfigur'd 
corse, 
Amid those heaps ! they fought, and we were 
absent ! 
( Walks about distractedly, then stops short.) 
Who sent thee here .'' 

Mess. Piscaro sent me to inform Count Basil, 

He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave 

To march his tardy troops to distant quarters. 

Bas. He says so, does he .' well, it shall be so. 

(Tossing his arms distractedly.) 

I will to quarters, narrow quarters go, 

Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no 

more. [Exit. 

Mess. I'll follov/ after him ; he is distracted : 

And yet he looks so wild I dare not do it. 

Enter Victoria as if frightened, followed by 

Is.^BELLA. 

Vict, (to Isab.) Didst thou not mark him as 

he pass'd thee too .■' 
Isab. I saw him pass, but with such hasty 

steps I had no time. 
Vict. I met him with a wild disorder'd air, 
In furious haste ; he stopp'd distractedly, 
And gaz'd upon me w^th a mournful look. 
But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art 
thou.' (To the Mcssencrer.) 

I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings. 

Mess. No, rather good as I should deem it, 
madam, 
Altho' unwelcome tidings to Count Basil. 
Our army hath a glorious battle won ; 
Ten thousand French are slain, their mon- 
arch captive. 
Vict, (to Mess.) Ah, there it is ! he was not 
in the fight. 
Run after him I pray — nay, do not so — 
Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg, 
And bid him follow him — I pray thee ran ! 
Mess. Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem 
not well : 
I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go. 
Vict. No, no, I'm well enough; I'm very 
well : 
Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly. 
[Exit Messenger. 
O what a wretch am I .' I am to blame ! 
I only am to blame .' 

Isab. Nay, wherefore say so ? 

What have you done that others would not do ? 



Vict. What have I done ? I've fool'd a noble 
heart — 
I've wreck'd a brave man's honour ! 

[Exit leaning upon Isabella. 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — a dark night; no moon, but 

A FEW STARS glimmering; THE STAGE 
REPRESENTS (aS MUCH AS CAN BE 
DISCOVERED FOR THE DARKNESS) A 
CHURCH-YARD WITH PART OF A CHAP- 
EL, AND A WING OF THE DUCAL PAL- 
ACE ADJOINING TO IT. 

Enter Basil with his hat off, his hair and his 
dress in disorder, stepping slowly, and stopping 
several times to listen, as if he was afraid of 
meeting any one. 

Bas. No sound is here : man is at rest, and I 
May near his habitations venture forth. 
Like some unblessed creature of the night, 
Who dares not meet his face. — Her window's 

dark ; 
No streaming light dotli from her chamber 

beam. 
That I once more may on her dwelling gaze. 
And bless her still. All now is <iark lor me ! 
(Pauses for some time, and looks upon the 

graves.) 
How happjr are the dead, who quietly rest 
Beneath these stones ! each bv iiis kindred 

laid, 
Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those, 
Who when alive his social converse shar'd : 
And now perhaps some dear surviving friend 
Doth here at times the grateful visit pay. 
Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er, 
And bless his mem'ry still ! — 
But I, like a vile outcast of my kind, 
In some lone spot must lay m' unburied corse, 
To rot above the earth ; where, if perchance 
The steps of human wand'rer e'er approach, 
He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place, 
With dark imaginations frightful made 
The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed 

wretch ! 
r the fair and honour'd field shouldst tliou 

have died. 
Where brave friends, proudly smiling thro' 

their tears, 
Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay ! 

(Jl light seen in Victoria "s tcindoio.) 
But ha ! the wonted, welcome light appears. 
How bright witliin I see her chamber wall ! 
Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadov/ moves, 
A slender woman's form : it is herself! 
What means that motion of its clasped hands .'' 
That drooping head .■" alas ! is she in sorrow .'' 
Alas! thou sweet enchantress of the mind, 
Whose voice was gladness, and whose pres- 
ence bliss. 
Art thou unhappy too .' I've brought thee 

woe ; 
It is for me thou weep'st. Ah ! were it so, 



61 



BASIL: A TRAGEDY. 



FaH'n as 1 am, I yet could life endure, 

In some dark den from human sight conceal'd, 

So, that I sometimes from my haunt might 

steal, 
To see and love thee still. No, no, poor 

wretch ! 
She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns 

thee too. 
She moves again ; e'en darkly imag'd thus, 
How lovely is that form ! 

{Pauses, still looking at the window.) 
To be so near thee, and for ever parted ! 
For ever lost ! what art thou now to me .-' 
Shall the departed gaze on thee again ? 
Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour. 
Whilst thou perceiv'st it not, and think'st 

perhaps 
'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by .' 
(Pauses again, and gazes at the icindow, 
till the light disappears.) 
'Tis gone, 'tis gone ! these eyes have seen their 

last! 
The last impression of her heavenly form : 
The last sight of those walls wherein she lives : 
The last blest ray of light from human dwell- 
ing. 
I am no more a being of this world. 
Farewell ! farewell I all now is dark for me ! 
Come fated deed ! come liorrour and despair ! 
Here lies my dreadful way. 

Enter Geoffry from behind a tomb. 

Geof. O ! stay, my gen'ral ! 
Bas. Art thou from the grave .' 

Gcof. O my brave gen'ral ! do you luiow 
me not .'' 
I am old Geoffry, the old maimed soldier, 
You did so nobly honour. 

Bas. Then go thy way, for thou art honour- 
able : 
Thou hast no shame, thou need'st not seek 

the dark 
Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go! 
Geof. Nay, speak not thus, my noble gene- 
ral ! 
Ah ! speak not thus ! thou'rt brave, thou'rt 

honour'd still. 
Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd 
To be o'erthrown with one unhappy chance. 
I've heard of thy bravo deeds with swelling 

heart, 
And yet shall live to cast my cap in air 
At glorious tales of thee. — 

Bas. Forbear, forbear ! thy words but wring 

my soul. 
Geof. O ! pardon me ! I am old maimed 
Geoffry. 
O ! do not go ! I've but one hand to hold thee. 
{Laying hold of Basil as he attempts to go 
away. Basil stops, and looks around upon 
him with softness.) 

Bas. Two would not hold so well, old hon- 
our'd vet'ran ! 
What vi^ouldst thou have me do .'* 

Geof. Return, my lord ; for love of blessed 
heaven, 



Seek not such desperate ways ! where would 
you go .' 
Bas. Does Geoffry ask where should a sol- 
dier go 
To hide disgrace .'* there is no place but one., 
(Struggling to get free.) 
Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not 
To do some violence to thy hoary head — 
What, wilt thou not ? nay, then it must be so. 
(Breaks violently from him, and Exit.) 
Gcof. Curs'd feeble hand ! he's gone to seek 
perdition ! 
I cannot run. Where is that stupid hind .' 
He should have met me here. Holla, Fernan- 
do ! 

Enter Fernando. 

We've lost him, he is gone, he's broke from 

me ! 
Did I not bid thee meet me early here. 
For that he has been known to haunt this 
place .' 
Fcr. Which way has he gone ? 
Gcof. Towards the forest, if I guess aright. 
But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg, 
And he will follow him ; run swiftly, man ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a wood, wild and savagej 

AN ENTRY TO A CAVE, VERY MUCH 
TANGLED WITH BRUSHWOOD, IS SEEN 
IN THE BACKGROUND. THE TIME 

REPRESENTS THE DAWN OF MORNING- 
BASIL IS DISCOVERED STANDING NEAR 
THE FRONT OF THE STAGE, IN A 
THOUGHTFUL POSTURE, WITH A COU- 
PLE OF PISTOLS LAID BY HIM ON A 
PIECE OF PROJECTING ROCK; HE 
PAUSES FOR SOME TIME. 

Bas. {alone.) What shall I be some few 
short moments hence .'' 
Why ask I now .' who froni the dead will rise 
To tell me of that awful state unknown .'' 
But bo it Vvdiat it may, or bliss, or torment. 
Annihilation, dark and endless rest. 
Or some dread thing, man's wildest range o 

thought 
Hath never yet conceiv'd,tiiat change'I'll dare 
Which makes me anything but what 1 am. 
I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire, 
In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie, 
Be toss'd aloft through tracks of endless void, 
But cannot live in shame — (Pauses.) O im- 
pious thought ! 
Will the great God of mercy, mercy have 
On all but those who are most miserable .' 
Will he not punish with a pitying hand 
The poor, fall'n, froward child ? {Pauses.) 
And shall I then against his will offend. 
Because he is most good and merciful .' 

! horrid baseness ! what, what shall I do ? 
I'll think no more — it turns my dizzy brain — ■ 
It is too late to think — what must be, must 

be— 

1 cannot live, therefore I needs must die. 



BASIL : A TRAtiEDY. 



35 



(Takes up the pistols, and walks up and down, 

looking icildly around him, then discovering 

the cave's viouth.) 
Here is an entry to some darksome cave, 
Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace, 
And hide its foul corruption from the earth. 
The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot. 
I'll do it here. 
{Enters the cave and Exit ; a deep silence ; 

then the report of a pistol is heard from the 

cave, and soon after. Enter Rosinberg, Val- 

tomer, two Officers and Soldiers, almost at 

thesame moment by different sides of the stage. 

Ros. This way the sound did come. 

Valt. How came ye, soldiers.'' heard ye 
that report ? 

\st Sol. We heard it, and it seem'd to come 
from hence, 
Which made us this way hie. 

Ros. A horrid fancy darts across my mind. 
(.4 isroan heard from the cave.) 
(To Valt.) Ha! heard'st thou that .' 

Valt. Methinks it is the groan of one in 
pain. (ji second groan.) 

Ros. Ha ! there again ! 

Valt. From this cave's mouth, so dark and 
choak'd with weeds, 
It seems to come. 

Ros. I'll enter first. 

1st Off. My Lord, the way is tangkd o'er 
with briers : 
Hard by, a few short paces to the left, 
There is another mouth of easier access ; 
I pass'd it even now. 

Ros. Then shew the way. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — the inside of the cave. 

Basil discovered lying on the ground, with his 
head raised a little upon a few stones and 
earth, the pistols lying beside him, and blood 
upon his breast. Enter Rosinberg, Valto- 
MKR, and Officers. Rosinberg, upon seeing 
Basil, stops short with horrour, and remains 
motionless for some time. 

Valt. Great God of heaven ! what a sight is 
this I 
'(Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down by 
his side.) 
Ros. O Basil ! O my friend ! what hast 

thou done .'' 
Bas. (Covering his face with his hand.) 
Why art thou come ? I thought to -die 
in peace. 
Ros. Thou know'st me not — I am thy Ros- 
inberg, 
Thy dearest, truest friend, tliy loving kins- 
man ! 
Thou dost not say to me, Why art thou come ? 
Bas. Shame knows no kindred : I am fall'n, 
disgrac'd ; 
My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee. 

Ros. My Basil, noble spirit ! talk not tlius ! 
The greatest mind untoward fate may prove : 
Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still, 
Fall'n as thou art — and yet thou art not fall'n ; 
Who says thou art, must put his harness on, 



And prove his words in blood. 

Bas. Ah Rosinberg ! Uiis is no time to boast ! 
I once had hopes a glorious name to gain ; 
Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire ; 
The hour of trial came, and found me wanting! 
Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten. — 
And O ! my friend ! something upbraids me 
here, (laying his hand on his breast.) 
For that I now remember how oft-times 
I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth, 
Most vainly teaching where I should have 

learnt ; 
But thou wilt pardon me. — 

Ros. (taking Basil's hand, and pressing it to 
his breast.) Rend not my heart in 
twain ! O talk not thus ! 
I knew thou wert superiour to myself, 
And to all men beside : thou wert my pride ; 
I paid thee defrence with a willing heart. 
Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, Rosin- 
berg ! 
I feel my weakness now, I own my pride. ^ 
Give me thy hand, my time is near the close : 
Do this for me : thou know'st my love, Vic- 
toria — 
Ros. O curse that woman ! she it is alone — 
She has undone us all ! 

Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death 
To hear tliee name her thus. O curse her not i 
The fault is mine ; she's gentle, good and 

blameless. — 
Thou wilt not then jny dying wish fulfil .' 
Ros. I will ! I will ! what wouldst thou have 

me do .'' 
Bas. See her when I am gone ; be gentle 
with her ; 
And tell her that I bless'd her in my death ; 
E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her. 
Wilt thou do this ? 

Ros. I'll do what thou desir'st. 

Bas. 1 thank thee, Rosinberg; my time 
draws near. 
{Raising his head a little, and perceiving Offi- 
cers.) 
Is there not some one here .' are we alone ? 

Ros. (^making a sign for the Officers to retire.) 
'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion. 

Bas. Thou know'st this desp'rate deed 
from sacred rites 
Hath shut me out; I am unbless'd of men. 
And what I am in siglit of th' awful God, 
I dare not tliink ; when I am gone, my friend, 

! let a good man's prayers to heaven ascend 
For an offending spirit! — Pray for me. 
What thinkest thou .■' although an outcast 

here. 
May not some heavenly mercy still be found '' 
Ros. Thou wilt find mercy — my beloved 
Basil- 
It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected. 

1 will with bended knee — I will implore — 
It choaka mine utterance — I will pray for 

thee — 
Bas. This comforts me — thou art a loving 

friend. (.d* noise without.) 

Ros. {to Off. icithout.) What noise is that ? 
Enter Valtomer. 



66 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



Valt. {to Ros.) My lord, the soldiers all in- 
sist to enter. 
What shall I do ? they will not be denied : 
They say that they will see their noble gen'- 
ral. 
Bas. Ah my brave fellows ! do they call me 

so? 
Ros. Then let them come! 

Enter Soldiers, who gather round Basil, and 
look mournfidhj upon him ; he holds out his 
hand to them with a faint smile. 

Bas. My gen'roiis soldiers, this is kindly 
meaat. 
I'm low i' the dust ; God bless you all, brave 
hearts ! 
1st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble 
gen'ral ! 
We'll never follow such a leader more. 

2d Sol. Ah ! had you staid with us, my no- 
ble gen'ral, 
We would have died for you. 
(dd Soldier endeavours next to sj)cak, hut can- 
not; and kneeling doion hy Basil, cocers his 
face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his 
face to the wall and 2ceeps.) 
"Bas. (in a very faint broken voice.) Where 
art thou ? do not leave me, Rosinberg — 
Come near to me — these fellows make me 
weep 



I have no power to weep — give me thy hand — 
I love to feel thy grasp— my heart beats 

strangely — 
It beats as tho' its breathings would be few — 
Remember — 

Ros. Is there aught thou wouldst desire ? 
Bas. Nought but aMittle earth to cover mc. 
And lay the s°noothsod even with the ground- 
Let no stone mark the spot-^give no offence. 
I fain would say — what can I say to thee ? 
(J deep pause ; after a feeble struggle, Basil 
expires.) 
\st Sol. That motion was his last. 
2fZ Sol. His spirit's fled. 

Ist Sol. God grant it peace ! it was a noble 

spirit ! 
Ath Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse 

a braver. 
Ist Sol. Alas ! no trumpet e'er shall rouse 
him more. 
Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead. 
'2d Sol. And when tliat sounds it will not 

wake a braver. 
M Sol. How pleasantly he shar'd our hard- 
est toil ! 
Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made. 
Ath Sol. Ay, many a time, i' the cold damp 
plain has he 
With cheerful count'nance cried, " Good rest, 

my hearts !" 
Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him 

down 
E'en like tlie meanest soldier in the field. 
(Rosinberg all this time continues hanging 
over the%odrj, and gazing upon it. Valto- 
mer noto endeavours to draw him awaij.) 
Valt. Tliis is too sad, my Lord. 



Ros. There, seestthou how he lies .' so fix'd, 
so pale ? 
Ah ' what an end is this ! thus lost ! thus 

fall'n! 
To be thus taken in his middle course, 
Where he so nobly strove ; till cursed passion 
Came like a sun-stroke on liis midday toil, 
And cut the strong man down. O Basil! 
Basil I 
Valt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sor- 
row here. 
Ros. He was the younger brother of my 

soul. 
VaU. Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight. 
Time calls us, let the body be remov'd. 
Ros. He was— O! he was hke no other 

man ! 
Valt. {still endeavouring to draw him away.) 
Nay, now forbear. ■ 

ilos. I lov'd him from his birth ! 

Vait. Time presses, let the body be remov'd. 
Ros. What say'st thou .' 
Valt. Shall we not remove him hence ? 

Ros. He has forbid it, and has charg'd me 
well 
To leave his grave unknown ; for that the 

climch 
All sacred rites to the self-slain denies. 
He would not give offence. 

1st Sol. What, shall our gen'ral, like a very 
wretch. 
Be laid nnlionour'd in the common ground .' 
No last salute to bid his soul farewell ? 
No warlike honours paid ? it shall not be. 
2d Sol. Laid thus ? no, by the blessed light 
of heav'n ! 
In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls 
He shall be laid : in face of day be laid ; 
And tho' black priests should curse us m the 

teeth. 
We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have 

power 
To grasp a musket. 

Several Soldiers. Let those who dare tor- 
bid it ! • 
Ros. My brave companions, be it as you will. 
{Spreadin.o- out his arms as if he would em- 
brace the Soldiers.— They prepare to remove 
tlir hodif.) 

Valt. Nay, stop a while, we will not move 
it now,. 
For see a mournful visitor appears. 
And must not be denied. 



Enter Victoria and Isabella. 

Vict. I thought to find him hero, where has 

he fled ? 

(Rosinberg poliitsto the body withovt speaking . 

Victorfa shrieks out and falls into the arms^ 

of Isabella. ' -n i -n 

hah. Alas! my gentle mistress, this wiH kill 

thee. 
Vict, {recovering.) Unloose tiiy hold, and 
let me look upon him. 
O ! horrid, horrid sight ! my ruin'd Basil ! 
Is this the sad reward of all thy love ? 
O ! I liave murder'd thee ! 



BASIL : A TRAGEDY. 



57 



(Kneels down by the hody and bends over it.) 
These wasted streams of life ! this bloody 
wound ! {Laying her liaud irpon his heart.) 
Is there no breathing here ? all still ! all cold ! 
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again, 
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee, 
In spite of all reproach. Alas ! alas ! 
A lifeless corse art thou forever laid, 
And dost not hear my call. — 

Ros. No, madam ; now your pity comes too 

late. 
Vict. Dost thou upbraid me ? O ! I have 

deserv'd it ! 
Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid : 
But woman's grief is like a summer storm, 
Short as it violent is ; in gayer scenes, 
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze. 
And play the airy goddess of the day. 
Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' observing 

crowd, 
Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend. 
And then it will upbraid. 

Plot. No, never, never ! thus it shall not be. 
To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go. 
Where sad and lonely, thro' the dismal grate 
Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then up- 
braid me. 
Ros. Forgive me, heed me not; I'm griev'd 
at heart ; 
I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hateful to me. 
If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive 

thee ; 
I must forgive thee : with his dying breath 
He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts 
Were love to thee ; in death he lov'd and 

bless'd thee. 
(Wictona. goes to throw herself vpon the body 
but is prevented by Valtomer and, Isabella 
wlio support her in their arms and endeavour 
to draw her aicay from it.) 
Vict. O ! force me not away ! by his cold 
corse, 
Let me lie down and weep. O ! Basil, Basil ! 
The gallant and tiie brave! how hast thou 

loved me ! 
If there is any holy kindness in you, 

{To Isab. and Valt.) 
Tear me not hence. 
For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost. 



With all my faults, most worthless of his love ; 
And him I'll love in the low bed of death, 
Izi horrour and decay. — 
Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days 
In humble pray'r for his departed spirit : 
Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed, 
As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not 

hence. 
I will not go, for grief hath made me strong. 
{Struggling to get loose.) 

Ros. Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow 
free. 
{They let her go, and she throics herself vjwn 

the body in an agony of grief .) 
It doth subdue the sternness of my grief 
To see her mourn him thus. — Yet I must 

curse .- 
Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father, 
Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck ! 

Isab. If he has done it, you are well reveng'd, 
For all his hidden plots detected are. 
Gauriceio, for some int'restof his own. 
His master's secret dealings with the foe 
Has to Lanoy betray 'd ; who straight hath sent, 
On the behalf of his imperial lord, 
A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua. 
His discontented subjects aid him not : 
He must submit to the degrading terms 
A haughty conq'ring power will now impose. 

Ros. And art thou sure of this .' 

Isab. I am, my lord. 

Ros. Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O ! 
I'm glad on't ! 
It should be so .' how like a hateful ape 
Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard, 
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds 
Are open'd to the day ! scorn'd, hooted, 

mock'd ! 
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admir'd 
His worthless art. But when a great mind 

falls. 
The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart 
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin ; 
With gentle censure using but its faults 
As modest means to introduce his praise ; 
For pity like a dewy twilight comes 
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day, 
And they who but admir'd him in his height, 
His alter'd state lament, and love him fall'n. 

[Exeunt. 



THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Mr. WlTIlRINGTON. 

Mr. Harwood. 

Colonel Hardv. 

Sir Loj-tus Prettyman. 

Mr. Opal. 

Mr. Rovston. 

Humphry. 

Jonathan. 

Thomas. 

Servants, &c. 



Agnes, 
Mariane, 
Miss Eston. 
Mrs. Betty, 



WOMEN. 



• JVleces to Withrin<rton. 



Maid to Aones. 



%* Scene in Bath, and in Mr^. Withring- 
ton's house inthe environs o/"Bath. 



Scene I.- 



ACT I. 

-Mr. WiTHPaNGTON'S HOUSE. 



Enter Withrington and his two Nieces hang- 
ing upon his arms, coaxing him in a playful 
manner as they advance towards the front of 
the Sta^e. 



With. Poo, poo, get along-, young gipsies, 
and don't tease me any more. 

jig. So we will, my good Sir, when you 
have granted our suit. 

Mar. Do, dear vincle, it will be so pleasant! 

With, Get along, get along. Don't think 
to wheedle me into it. It would be very 
pleasant, truly, to see an old fellow, with a 
wig upon his bald pate, making one in a holy- 
day mummery with a couple of madcaps. 

Jig. Nay, don't lay the fault upon the wig, 
good Sir, for it is as youthful, and as sly, and 
as saucy looking as the best head of iiair in 
the county. As for your old wig, indeed, 
there was so much curmudgeon-like austerity 
about it, that young people fled from before it, 
as, I dare say, the birds do at present; for I 
am sure it is stuck up in some cherry-orchard 
by this ti'no, to frig'iten away the sparrows. 

With You are mistaken, young mistress, it 
is up stairs in my wig-box. 

Ag. Well, I am glad it is any where but 
upon your pate, uncle. {Turning his face 



toicnrds Mariane.) Look at him, pray ! is he 
not ten years younger since he wore it.'' Is 
there one bit of an old grumbler to be seen 
about him now .' 

Mar. He is no more like the man he was 
than I am like my godmother. (Clapping his 
shoulder.) You must even do as we have bid 
you, sir, for this excuse will never bring you 
off. 

With. Poo, poo, it is a foolish girl's whim- 
sy : I'll have nothing to do with it. 

Jig. It is a reasonable woman's desire, gen- 
tle guardian, and you must consent to it. For 
if I am to marry at all, 1 am resolved to have 
a respectable man, and a man who is attached 
to me ; and to find out such a one, in mj' pres- 
ent situation, is impossible. I am provoked 
beyond all patience with your old greedy 
lords, and match-making aunts, introducing 
their poor noodle heirs-apparent to me. Your 
anil)itious esquires, and proud obsequious bar- 
onets are intolerable, and your rakish younger 
brothers are nauseous: such creatures only 
surround me, whilst men of sense stand at a 
distance, and think me as foolish as the com- 
panj' I keep. One would swear I was made 
of amber, to attract all the dust and chaff of 
the community. 

With. There is some truth in this, Taith. 
Jig. You see how it is with me, so my 
dear, loving, good uncle, {coaxing him.) do lot 
Mariane take my place for a little while. We 
are newly come to Bath ; nobody knows us : 
we have been but at one ball, and as Mariane 
looks so much better than me, she has already 
been mistaken for the heiress, and I for her 
portionless cousin : I have told you how we 
shall manage it ; do lend us your assistance ! 
With. So in the disgui.se of a portionless 
spinster, you are to captivate some man of 
sense, I suppose .'' 

Jlir. I would fain have it so. 
With. Go, go, thou art a fool, Agnes! who 
will fall in love with a little ordinarj' girl like 
thee .' why, tliere is not one feature in thy 
face that a man would give a fartiiing for. 
Mar. You are very saucy, uncle. 
.'ig. I should despair of my beauty to be 
sure, since I am reckoned so much like you, 
my dear Sir; \-et old nurse told me that a rich 
lady, a great lady, and the prettiest lady that 
ever wore silk, fell in love, once on a time, 
with Mr. Anthony, and v.'ould have followed 
him to the world's end too, if it had not been 
for an old hunks of a father, who deserved to 
be drubbed for his pains. Don"t you think he 
did, sir .' 



THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



69 



JVith. (endeavouring to look angry.) Old 
nurse is a fool, and you are an impudent hussy. 
I'll hear no more of this nonsense. (Breaks 
from them and goes toioards the door: they run 
after him, and draic him hack again.) 

Ag. Nay, good Sir, we have hot quite done 
with you yet : grant our request, and then 
scamper off as you please. 

Mar. I'll hold both your arms till you grant 
it. 

With, (to Mar.) And what makes you so 
eager about it, young lady .-' you expect, 1 sup- 
pose, to get a husband by the trick. O ly, 
iy ! tlie poorest girl in England would blush 
at such a thought, who calls herself an honest 
one. 

Ag. And Mariane would reject the richest 
man in England who would harbour such a 
suspicion. But give yourself no uneasiness 
about this. Sir ; she need not go a husband- 
huntino-, for she is already engaged. — (Mari- 
ane loo/cs frightened, and makes signs to Agnes 
over her uncle's shoulder, ichich she amwcrs 
tcith a smile of encouragement.) 

With. Engaged ! she is very good, truly, to 
manage all this matter herself, being afraid to 
give me any trouble, I suppose. And pray 
what fool has she picked out from the herd, to 
enter into this precious engagement with .'' 

,%. A i'oolish enough fellovv^ to be sure, your 
favourite nephew, cousin Edward. 

With. Hang the silly booby ! how could he 
be such an idiot ! but it can't be, it shan't be ! 
— it is folly to put myself into a passion about 
it. (To Mariane, ^clto puts her hand on his 
shoulder to soothe him.) Hold off your hands. 
Ma'am ! This is news indeed to amuse ine 
with of a morning. 

.ig. Yes, uncle, and I can tell you more 
news ; for they are not only engaged butas soon 
as he returns from abroad they are to be 
married. 

With. Well, well, let them marry in tiie 
devil's name, and go a-begging if they please. 

.fig. No, gentle guardian, they need not go 
a-begging ; they will have a good fortune to 
support them. 

With. Yes, yes, they will get a prize in the 
lottery, or find out the philosopher's stone, 
and coin their old shoes into guineas. 

^jg. No, Sir, it is not that way the fortune 
is to come. 

JVith. No; he has been foUov/ing some 
knight-errant, then, I suppose, and will have 
an island in the South Sea for his pains. 

^Ig. No, you have not guessed it yet. (Stro- 
king his hand gently.) Did you never liear of 
a good, kind, ricii uncle of tlieirs, the gene- 
rous Mr. Withrington .'' lie is to settle a hand- 
some provision upon them as soon as they 
are married, and leave them his fortune at 
last. 

IVith. (lifting up his hands ) Well, I must 
say thou art the sauciest little jade in tiie king- 
dom ! But did 3'ou never hear that this wor- 
thy uncle of theirs, having got a ne\y wig, 
wiiich makes him ten years youncrer than he 



was, is resolved to embrace the opportunity 
and seek out a wife for himself.'' 

jjg. O ! that is nothing to tlie purpose ; for 
what I have said about the fortune must hap- 
pen, though he should seek out a score of wives 
for himself. 

JVith. Must happen! but I saj' it shall not 
happen. Whether should you or I know best ? 
Jig. Why me, to be sure. 
Jiith. Ha, ha, ha I how so, baggage .' 
£g. (resting her arm on his shoulder, looking 
archly in his face.) You don't know, perhaps, 
that when I went to Scotland last summer, I 
travelled far, and fiU', as the tale says, and far- 
ther than I can tell, till I came to the Isle of 
Sky, where every body has the second sight, 
and has nothing to do but tear a little hole in 
a tartan-plaidy, and peering through it, in this 
manner, sees every thing past, present, and to 
come. Now, you must know, i gave an old 
woman half-a-crown and a roil ot tobacco for 
a peep or two through her plaid, and what do 
you think I saw, uncle ? 

With. The devil dancing a hornpipe, I sup- 
pose. 

Jig. There was somebody dancing to be 
sure, but it was not the devil though. Who do 
you think it was now .'' 
JVith. Poo, poo I 

Ag. It was uncle himself, at Mariane's wed- 
ding, leading down the first dance, with the 
bride. I savv' a slieetof parchment in a corner, 
too, signed with his own blessed liand, and a 
very handsome settlement it v/as. So he led 
down the first dance himself, and we all fol- 
lowed after him, as merry as so many hay- 
makers. 

JVltli. Thou hast had a sharp sight, 'faith ! 
Jig. And I took a second peep through the 
plaidy, and what do you think I saw then, Sir .'' 
JVith. Nay, prate on as thou ^vilt. 
j]g. A genteel family-house, where Edward 
and Mariane dwelt, and several little brats 
running up and dovi^n in it. Some of them so 
tall, and so tall, and some of them no taller 
than this. And there came good uncle amongst 
them, and they all flocked about him so mer- 
rily ; every body was so glad to see him, the 
very scullions from the kitchen were glad ; 
and methought he looked as well pleased him- 
self as any of tiiem. Don't you think he did, 
Sir? 

JVith. Have done with thy prating. 
Jig. I have not done yet, good Sir ; for I 
took another peep still, and tlien I saw a most 
dismal changed family indeed. There was a 
melancholy sick bed set out, in the best cham- 
ber ; every face was sad, and all the children 
were weeping. There v.'asone dark-eyed rogue 
amongst thein, called little Anthony, and he 
threv,' away his bread and butter, and roared 
like a young bull, for woe's me ! old uncle 
was dying. (QhservingSNiihrmgiow ajfectcd.) 
But old uncle recovered thcf.gh, and looked 
as stout as a veteran again. So I gave the old 
v.'oman her plaidy, and would not look through 
any more. 



60 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



With. Tliou art tho wildest little witch in 
the workl, and wilt never be at rest till thou 
hast got every thing thine own way, 1 believe. 

J]ir. I thank you, I thank you, dear uncle ! 
(leaping round his neck,) it shall be even so, 
and I shall have my own little boo2:i into the 
bargain. 

IVith. I did not say so. 

J}g. But I know it will be so, and many 
thanks to you, my dear good uncle ! (Mari- 
ano ventures to cumefrovi behind, — Withring- 
ton looks gently to her, slic holds out Iter hand, 
he hesitates, and Agnes joins their hands to- 
gethrr, givirig them a heartij shake.) 

With. Come, come, let me get away from 
you now : you are a couple of insinuating 
gipsies. Exit, hastily. 

Mar. (cmhracing Agnes.) Well, heaven 
bless thee, my sweet Agnes ! thou hast done 
marvels for me. You gave me a fright 
though ; I thought we were ruined. 

^g. O ! I knew I should get the better of 
him some way or other. What a good wor- 
tliy heart he has ! you don't know how dear- 
ly I love this old uncle of ours. 

Mar. I wonder how it is. I used to think 
him severe and unreasonable, with his fiddle 
faddle fancies about delicacy and decorum ; 
but since you came amongst us, Agnes, you 
have so coaxed him, and laughed at him, and 
played with him, that he has become almost 
as frolicksome as ourselves. 

Jig. Let us set about our project immedi- 
ately. Nobody knows us here but lady Fade 
and Miss Eston : we must let them both into 
ihe secret: lady Fade is confined with bad 
health, and though Miss Eston, I believe, 
would rather tell a secret than hold her tongue, 
yet as long as there ai'e streets and carriages, 
and balls and ribands, and feathers and fashions 
to talk of, there can be no great danger from 
her. 

Mar. O I we shall do very well. How I 
long to frolick it away, in all the rich trap- 
ing* of heir-ship, amongst tliosc sneaking 
wretches the fortune-hunters ! They have ne- 
glected ine as a poor girl, but I will play the 
deuce amongst them as a rich one. 

•^g- You will acquit yourself very hand- 
somely, I dare say, and find no lack of ad- 
mirers. 

Mar. I have two or three in my eye just 
now, but of all men living I have set mj' 
heart upon humbling Sir Loftus. He insult- 
ed a friend of mine last winter, to ingratiate 
himself with an envious woman of quality, 
but I will be revenged upon him; O! how 
1 will scorn him, and toss up my nose at 
him ! 

^g. That is not the way to be revenged 
upon him, silly girl! He is haughty and re- 
served in his manners ; and though not al- 
together without understanding, has never 
suffered a higlu.T idea to get footing in his 
noddle than that of appearing a man of con- 
sequence and fashion ; and though he has no 
happiness but in being admired as a fine gen- 



tleman, and no existence but at an assembly, 
he appears there with all the haughty gravi- 
ty, and careless indifference of a person su- 
jieriour to such paltry amusements. Such a 
man as this must be laughed at, not scorned ; 
contempt must be his portion. 

Mar. He shall have it then. And as for 
his admirer and imitator, Jack Opal, who has 
for these ten years past so successfully per- 
formed every kind of fine gentlemanship, 
that every new fool brought into fashion, any 
kind of bad treatment, 1 suppose, that hap- 
pen to come into my head will be good enough 
for him. 

.^g. Quite good enough. You have set him 
down for one of your admirers too ? 

Mar. Yes, truly, and a great many more 
besides. 

jig. Did you observe in the ball-room last 
night, a genteel young man, with dark grey 
eyes, and a sensible countenance, but with 
so littli! of the foppery of the fashion about 
him, that one took him ata distance for a much 
older man .'' 

Mar. Wore he not a plain brownish coat .•* 
and stood he not very near us great part of the 
evening ? 

Jig. Yes, the very same. Pray endeavour 
to attract him, Mariane. 

Mar. If you are very desirous to see him 
in my train, I will. 

£g. No, not desirous, neither. 
Mar. Then wherefore should I try .' 
Jig. Because I would have you try every 
art to win him, and I would not have him to 
be won. 

Mar. O ! I comprehend it now ! This is 
the sensible man we are in quest of. 

.4o-. I shall not be soriy if it proves so. I 
have enquired who he is, as I shall tell you 
b'v' and by, and what I have learnt of him I 
like. Is not his appearance prepossessing ? 

Mar. I don't know, he is too grave and 
dignified for such a girl as thou art; I fear 
we shall waste our labour upon him. 

j^g. But he does not look always so. He 
kept very near me, if it did not look vain, I 
should say followed me all the evening, and 
many a varied expression his countenance 
at;sumed. But when I went away arm in 
arm with my uncle, in our usual good-hu- 
moured way, I shall never forget the look 
of pleasant approbation witii which he fol- 
lowed me. I had learnt but a little while 
before the mistake which the company made 
in regard to us, and at that moment the idea 
of this project came across my mind like n 
flash of lightning. 

Mar. Very well, gentle cousin ; the task 
you assign me is pleasing to my humour, 
and the idea of promoting your happiness at 
the same time will make it delightful. Let 
me see, how many lovers shall I have — one, 
two, three. (Counting 07i her fingers.) 

Jig. I can tell you of one lover more than 
you wot of. 

Mar. Pray who is he ■' 



THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 



61 



Jig. Our distant cousin the great 'squire, 

and man of business, from shire : he 

writes to my uncle that he v.'ill be in Bath 
torday upon business of the greatest import- 
ance, which he explains to him in three pages 
of close- written paper; but whether he is to 
court me for himself, or for his son, or to so- 
licit a great man, who is here, for a place, 
no mortal on earth can discover. 

Mar. Well, let him come, I shall manage 
them all. O ! if my Edward were here just 
noiy, how he would laugh at us ! 

Enter Servant. 

&er. Miss Eston. 

Mar. Let us run out of her way, and say 
we are not 'at home. She will sit and talk 
these two hours. 

Ag. But you forget you have something to 
say to her. {To the servant.) Shew her up 
stairs to my dressing room. [Exit servant. 

Mar. Pray let us run up stairs before her, 
or she will arrest us here with her chat. 

[Exeunt. 

Miss Eston {icithout.) And it is a very bad 
thing for all that ; I could never abide it. I 
wonder your master don't stop {enters ivaik- 
ing straight across tlw stage still speaking) up 
those nasty chinks; there is such a v/ind in 
the hall, 'tis enough to give one a hoarseness. 
By the bye, Mrs. Mumblecake is sadly to-day; 
has your lady sent to inquire for her, Wil- 
liam .'' I wonder if her [Exn , still, talking ivith- 
ont) old coachman has left her ? I saw a new 
face on the, &c. &c. 

:SCENE II. THE FIELDS BEFORE MR. 

WITHRINGTON'S HOUSE. 

Enter Agnes, Mariane, and Miss Eston, who 
seem still busy talking, from the house, and 
passing over the stage, ana in arm, Exeunt. 
Enter by the same side by which they went 
out, Sill LoFTUs Prettyman, and Harvvood, 
who stands looking behind him, as if he follow- 
ed something with his eyes very eagerly. 

Sir Loft. {Mvancing to the front of the sta<re 
;an(l speaking to himself.) How cursedly un- 
lucky this is now ! if she had come out but 
a few moments sooner, I should have passed 
Jier walking arm in arm with a Brlttish peer. 
How provokingly these things always liappen 
with me ! {observing Harwood.) What ! is he 
staring after her too ? {aloud) What are you 
looking at, Harwood ? does she walk well .' 

Har. I can't tell how she walks, but I could 
stand and gaze after her till the sun went 
down upon me. 

Sir Loft. She is a fine woman, I grant you. 

Har. {vastly pleased.) I knev/ she would 
please, it is impossible she should not I There 
is something so delightful in the play of her 
countenance, it would even make a plain v/o- 
man beautiful. 

6VV Loft. She is a fine woman, and that is 
no despicable praise from one who is accus- 



tomed to the elegance of fashionable beauty. 

Har. I would not compare her to any thing 
so trifling and insipid. 

Sir Left. She has one advantage which 
fashionable beauty seldom possesses. 

Har. What do you mean ! 

Sir Loft. A large fortune. 

Har. (looking disappointed.) It is net the 
heiress I mean. 

Sir Loft. Is it t'otlier girl you are raving 
about .^ She is showy at a distance, I admit, 
but as awkward as a dalry-inaid when near 
vou ; and her tongue goes as fast as if she 
were repeating a pater noster. 

Har. What, do you think I am silly enough 
to be caught with that magpie .' 

Sir Loft. Who is it then, Harwood.' I see 
nobody with Miss Withrington but Miss Eston 
and the poor little creature her cousin. 

Har. Good god ! what a contemptable per- 
version of taste do interest and liishion create ! 
But it is all afiectatiou. {Looking ccntcmptu- 
ouslij at him.) 

Sir Loft, {smiling coiitcmptuovsly in return.) 
Ha. ha, ha ! 1 see how it is with you, Har- 
wood, and I beg pardon too. The lady is 
very charming, 1 dare say ; upon honour I 
never once looked in her iiice. She is a de- 
pendent relatioji of Miss Withrington's, 1 be- 
lieve : now I never take notice of such girls, 
for if you do it once they expect you to do it 
again. I am sparing of my attentions, that 
she on whom I reajly bestow them may have 
the more reason to boast. 

Har. You are right, Prettyman : she who 
boasts of your attentions should receive them 
all herself, that nobody else mny know their 
real worth. 

Sir Loft. Y^ou are sev';ere this morning, Mr. 
Harwood, but you do not altogether compre- 
hend me, I believe. I know perhaps more of 
the world than a studious Templar can be sup- 
posed to do, and I assure you, men of fashion 
upon this principle, are sparing of their words, 
too, that they^ may be listened to more atten- 
tively when they do speak. 

Har. Yon are very right still, Sir Loftus ; 
for if they spoke much, I'll l)e haiig'd if they 
would get any body to listen to them at all. 

Sir Loft, {haughtily.) There is another rea- 
son why men of fashion are not profuse of 
their words : inferior people are apt to forget 
themselves, and despise what is too famil- 
iar. 

Har. Don't take so much pains to make me 
comprehend that the more fools speak the 
more people will despise them ; I never had a 
clearer conviction of it in 1113^ life. 

Sir Loft, {haughtily.) Good morning. Sir ; 
I see Lofd Saunter in the other walk, arid i 
must own I prefer the company of one who 
knows, at least, the common rules of polite- 
ness. Exit. 

Har. {alone.) "What a centemptiblc creature 
it is! He v/oulJ prefer the most affected idiot. 
who boasts a little fashion or consequence as 
he calls it, to the most beautiful native chaj-r 



62 



THK TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



acter in the world. Here comes another fool, 
who has been gazing too, but I will not once 
mention her before him. 

Enter Opal. 
Op. Good morning, Harwood : I have been 
fortunate just nov/; I have met some fine 
girls, 'faith ! 

Har. I am glad you have met with any 
thing so agreeable ; they are all equally charm- 
ing to you, I suppose. 

Op. Nay, Harwood, I know how to distin- 
guish. There is a little aninuited creature 
amongst tiiem, all life and spirit ; on my soul 
I could almost be in love with her. 

Har. Thou hast more discernment than I 
reckoned upon. If that goose. Sir Loftus, did 
not spoil thee. Jack, thou wouldst be a very 
good fellov,', after all. Why 1 must tell you, 
my good Opal, that lady whom you admire, is 
the sweetest little gipsey in England. 

Op. Is she indeed .' I wish I had taken a 
better look of her face then ; but she wears 
such a cur.«ed juume of blue feathers nodding 
over her nose,, there is scarcely one half cf it 
to be seen. 

lliir. (starino- at him with aslonisltmait.) 
.As I breaths ! he has fallen in love with the 
magpie ! 

Op. And vAviX is so surprising in this, pray.' 
Does not all the world allow Miss Witliring- 
ton the heiress to be a line woman.' 

Har. That is not the heiress, Jack, {pointing 
off tlic .stage) the tall lady in the middle is 
her. But if your Uulcinea could coin her 
words into farthings, she would be one of the 
best matches in the kingdom. 

Op. Pest tike it ! slie was pointed out to 
mc' as Mis.s Withrington. Pest take my stu- 
pidity I the girl is well enough, but she is 
not altogether — {Muvihling to himself.) 

Har. So you bestowed all your attention 
on this blue-feathered lady, and let the other 
two pass by unnoticed. 

Op. No, not unnoticed neither : Miss With- 
rington is too line a figure to be overlooked any 
where ; and for the other poor little creature, 
who hung upon her arm so familiarly, I could 
not help observing her too, because 1 won- 
dered Miss Witiiriugton allowed such a dow- 
dy looking thing to walk with her in publlck. 
Faith! I sent a vulgat -looking devil out of 
the way on a fool's errand the other morning, 
who insisted upon going with Preityman and 
1, to the pump-room : men of fashion, you 
Knov/, are always plagued with paltry fellows 
dangling after them 

Har. Hang your men of fas'iion! mere 
pal'ry fellows are too good company for them. 
Op. Damn it, Harwood ! speak more re- 
spectfully of that class of men to whoui I have 
the honour to belong. 

Har. You mistake me, Opal, it was only 
the men cI" faahion I abused ; I am too well 
bred to speak uncivilly, in your presence, of 
the other class you mentioned. 

On. I scoru j'our insinuation, Sir; but 



whatever class of men I belong to, I praise 
heaven I have nothing of the sour plodding 
book- worm about me. 

Har. Ycu do well to praise heaven for the 
endowments it has bestowed upon you. Opal; 
if all men were as thankful as you for tliis 
blessed gift of ignorance, we could not be 
said to live in an ungrateful generation. 

Op. Talk away, laugh at your own wit as 
much as you please, I don't mind it. I don't 
trouble my head to find out bons mots of a 
morning. 

Hur. You are very right. Jack , for it would 
be to no purpose if you did. 

Op. I spjeak vv'hatever comes readiest to 
me ; I don't study speaches for compan}', 
Harwood. 

Har. I hope so. Opal; you would have a 
laborious life of it, indeed, if you could, not 
speak nonsense extempore. 

Op. (drawing himself up and loalking 
haiightilij to the other side rf the stage.) I had no 
business to be so familiar with him. Sir Lof- 
tus is right ; a reserved manner keeps imper- 
tinent ])eople at a distance, {aside — Turns 
about makes a very stiff how to Harwood, and 

[Exit.). 

Har. (alone.) I am glad he is gone. What 
do I sec .' {here Mariano, Agnes, and Miss 
Esfcon wa.lk over the bottom of the stage atten- 
ded, by Sir Loftus and Opal, and Exeunt by 
the opposite side. Har. looking after them.) 
Alas, now ! that such impudent fellows should 
be successful, whilst I stand gazing at a dis- 
tance ! How lightly she trips ! does she not 
look about to me .-■ by lieaven I'll run to her ! 
{Rims to the bottom of the stage, and stops 
short.) Oh no ! I cannot do it ! but see, her 
uncle comes this way. He looked so kindly 
at her, I could not help loving him ; he 
must be a good man ; I "11 make up to him, 
and he perhaps will join the ladies after- 
wards. ' [Exit, 



ACT II. 



Scene I.— a lodging-house. 

Enter Royston and Humphry followed by 
Jonathan, carrying a portmanteau. 

Roy. V/hat a world of business I have got 
upon my hards! I must set about it immediate- 
ly. Com Miere, Jonathan: I shall send you 
out in tiie first place. 

Jon. Well, Sir. 

Roi/. Take the bladv trunk, that is left in 
tlie hall, upon your shoulder, Jonathan, and 
be sure you don't run against any body with 
it. for that might bring us into trouble. And 
perhap.s as you go along, yon may chance to 
meet with some of the Duke of Begall's ser- 
vants, or v.'ith somebody who can tell you 
where his Grace lodges in this town, and you 
may enquire of them, v»^ithout saying 1 desir- 
ed you ; you understand me, Jonathan ? 

Jon. O ves, your honour ! 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



63 



Roy. But first of all, however, if you see 
any decent hair-dresser's shop in your wa}^, 
desire them to send somebody here for my 
wig: and like enough they may tell 3'ou, at 
the same time, where there is an honest 
Town-crier to he had; I'll have Ph<Ebe's 
black whelp cried directly : and hark ye, 
Jonathan, j'ou may say as though the dog 
were your own, you understand, they will 
expect such a devil of a reward else ; and 
pri'thee, man ! step into the corn-market, if 
thou canst find out the way, and enquire the 
price of oats. 

Jon. Yes, please your honour, but am I to 
go trudging about to all these places with that 
great heavy trunk upon my shoulder? 

lioy. No, numskull ! did I not bid j-ou car- 
ry it to the Inn \\ here the London stage puts 
up? by the bye, 3fou had better take it to the 
waggon — but first ask the coachman, v/hat 
lie charges for the carriage ; you can take it 
■to the waggon afterwards. I will suffer no 
man to impose upon me. You will I'emember 
all this distinctly now, as I have told it you 
Jonathan? 

Jon. {counting to himself upon his fingers.) 
O 3'es, your honour ! I'll manage it all i war- 
rant ' [Exit. 

Itoy. ^Vhat a world of business I have upon 
my hands, Humphry I I am as busy as a 
minister of state. 

Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 

Jon. La your honour ! I have forgot all about 
his Grace, and the black whelp. 

Roy. Damn your muddle pate ! did not I 
bid you enquire where his Grace lives, and 
if you happen to see — 

Jo7i, Ods bodickins ! I remember it every 
word now ! and the whelp is to be called by 
the Town-crier, just as one would call SMy- 
thing that is lost. 

Roy. Yes, yes, go about it speedily. {Exit 
jTN.) Now in the first place, my good 
Jiimphry, I must see after the heiress I told 
you of; and it is a business which requires a 
great deal of management too ; for — 

Re-enter Jonathan, scratching his head. 

Damn that dunder-headed fool ! here he is 
again. 

Jo7i. Your honour v/on't be angry now, but 
hang me, if I can tell whether I am to take 
that tliere trunk to the coach, or the waggon. 

Roy. Take it to tlie coach — no, no, to the 
waggon — yes, yes, I should have said — pest 
take it ! carry it where thou wilt, fool, and 
plague me no more about it. {Exit. Jon.) One 
might as well give directions to a horse-block. 
Now, as I was saying, Plumphrey, this re- 
quires a great deal of management ; for if the 
lady don't like me, she may happen to like 
my son : so I must feel my way a little, be- 
fore I speak directly to the purpose. 

Humph. Ay, your honour is always feeling 
your way. 

Roy. And as for the Duke, I will ply him 



as close as I can with solicitations in the mean 
time, without altogether stating my request: 
for if I get the lady, George shall have the 
office, and if he gets the lady, I shall have 
the office. So we shall have two chances in 
our favour both ways, my good Humphry. 

Humjih. Belike, Sir, if we were to take 
but one business in hand at a time, we might 
come belter oft' at the long run. 

Roy. O ! thou hast no head for business, 
Humphry : thou hast no genius for business, 
my good Humphry, (smilivg ccnccittdhj.) 

Humph. Why, for certain, 3'our honour has 
a marvellous deal of wit, but I don't knov,r 
how it is, nothing that we take in hand ever 
comes to any good ; and what provokes me 
more than all the rest, is, that the more pains 
we take about it, tlie worse it always succeeds. 

Roy. Humph ! we can't guard against ev- 
ery cress accident. 

Hvvijtli. To be sure Sir, cross accidents 
will happen to every body, bvit ccrtes ! we 
have more than our own share of them. 

Roy. Well, don't trouble yourself about it : 
I have head enough to manage my own af- 
fairs, and more than my own too. Why,m3' 
lord Slumber can't even grant a new lease, 
nor imprison a vagabond for poaching, with- 
out my advice and direction : did I not man- 
age all Mr. Harebrain's election for him? 
and, but for one of these cursed accidents or 
two. had brought him in for his Borough, as 
neatly as my glove. Nay, if his Grace and I 
get into good understanding together, there la 
no knowing, but I may have affairs of the 
nation upon my hands. Ha, ha. ha ! poor 
Humphry, thou hast no comprelicnsion of all 
this : thou think'st me a very wonderful man, 
dost thou not ? 

Hinnph. I must own I do some limes marvel 
at 3-our honour. 

Enter Mr. Withrington. 

Roy. Ha ! how do you do, my dear cousin? 
I hope I have the happiness of seeing you in 
good health : I am heartily rejoiced to see 
you, my very good Sir. (Shaking him hear- 
tily by the hand.) 

IVith. I thank you. Sir, you are welcome ta 
Bath ; I did not expect the pleasure of see- 
ing you here. 

Roy. V/hy, my dear worthy Sir, I am a man 
of so much business, so toss'd about, so har- 
ass'd with a multiplicity of affairs, that, I 
protest, I can't tell myself one day what part 
of the world I shall be in the next. 

With. You give 3'ourself a great deal of 
trouble, Mr. Royston. 

Roy. O ! hang it ! I never spare myself: I 
must work to make others work, cousin With- 
rington. I have got a world of new altera- 
tions going on at Ro3'ston-hali ; if 3'ou would 
take a trip down to see them — 

JVith. I am no great traveller, Sir. 

Roy. 1 have plough'd up the bowling green, 
and cut down the elm-trees ; I have built new 
stables, and fill'd up the horse-pond; I have 



64 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



(lurr up the orchard, and pull'd down the old 
fruit-wall, \vhere that odd little temple used 
to stand. 

IFith. And is the little temple pulled down 
too ? pray, what has become of your Vicar's 
sister, Mrs. Mary ? we drunk tea with her 
there, 1 remember; is she married yet.' she 
was a very modest-looking gentlewoman. 

Roij. So 3'ou remember her too ? Well, I 
have pull'd down every foot of it, and built a 
new cart-house with tlie bricks. — Good com- 
modious stalls for thirty horses, cousin With- 
rin(rt<jn ; they beat Sir John Houndly's all to 
notliing • it is a,s clever, a well-constructed 
building as any in tiie country. 

fVitk. Has Sir John built a new house in 
the country ? 

Roij. No, no, the stables I say. 

Jl'it/i. O ! you are talking of the stables 
again. 

Roy. But v.'hen I get the new addition to 
the mansion-house finished, that will be the 
grand improvement : the best carpenters' 
work in the country, my dear Sir, all well- 
season'd timber from Norway. 

jliiinp'i.. It is part of a disputed wreck. Sir, 
and if the law-suit about the right to it turns 
out in my master's favour, as it should do, it 
will be the cheapest built house in the coun- 
try. Oh ! let his honour alone for making a 
bargain. 

U'ith. So you have got a law-suit on j'our 
hands, Mr. Royston f I hope you are not 
much addicted to this kind of amusement, 
you will find it a very expensive one. 

Roy. Bless you, my good Sir, I am the most 
peaceable creature in the world, but I will 
suffer no man to impose upon me. 

JVith. (smiluiir.) But j-ou suffer the women 
Bometimes to do so, do you not.'' 

Humph. No, nor the women neither, Sir: 
for it was but th' other day that he prosecuted 
widow Gibson, for letting her chickens feed 
amongst his corn, and it was given in his 
honour "s favour as in right it should have 
been. 

With, (archly.) And who was adjudged to 
pay the expenses of court, Mr. Humphry ! 

Humph. Ay, to be sure, his honour was 
obliged to pay that. 

IVith. (archly.) But the widow i)a;d swing- 
ingly for it, I suppose ? 

Humph. Nay 'faith, after all, they but fined 
her in a sixpence; yet that always shewd, 
you know, that she was in the wrong. 

JVltli. To be sure, Mr. Humphry; and the 
sixpence would indemnify your master for the 
costs of suit. 

Humph. Nay, as a body may say, he might 
as well have let her alone, for any great mat- 
ter he made of it that way ; but it was very 
wrong in her, you know. Sir, to let her hens 
go amongst his honour's corn, V/hen she knew 
very v.'ell she was too poor to make up the 
loss to his honour. 

JVith. Say no more about it, my good Hum- 
phry; you have vindicated your master most 



ably, and I have no doubts at all in regard to 
the propriety of his conduct. 

Humph, {very well pleased.) Ay, thank 
God, I do sometimes make shift, in my poor 
way, to edge in a word for his honour. 

Roy. (not so ioc.ll phased.) Thou art strange- 
ly given to prating this morning, (to Humph.) 
By the bye, cousin Witln-ington, I must 
Consult you about ni}' application to his 
Grace. 

Humph, (aside to Royston, pulling him by 
the sleeve.) You forget to ask for the lady, 
Sir. 

With, (turning round.) What did j'ou say 
of his Grace .-' 

Roy. No, no, I should — I meant — did I not 
say the gracious young lady your niece ? I 
hope she is well. 

With: (smiling.) She is very well ; you shall 
go home with me and visit her. 

Roy. I am infinitely obliged to you, my 
worthy good Sir : I shall attend you with the 
greatest pleasure. Some ladies have no dis- 
like to a good-looking gentleman-like man, 
although he may be past the bloom of his 
youth, cousin ; however, young men do often- 
er carry the day, I believe : my son George 
is a good likely fellow ; I expect him in Bath 
every hour. 1 shall have the honour of fol- 
lowing you, my dear Sir. Remember my or- 
ders, Humphry. [Exetnt. 

Enter Harwood hastily, looking round as if he 
sought some one, and were disappointed. 

Har. (alone.) He is gone, I have miss'd the 
good uncle of Agnes — what is the matter with 
me nov/, that the sound of an old man's voice 
should agitate me thus ? did 1 not feel it was 
the sound of something which belong'd to 
her .'' in faith ! I believe, if her kitten was to 
mew, 1 should hasten to hold some intercourse 
with it. I can stay in this cursed house no 
longer, and when I do go out, there is but 
one way these legs of mine will carry me — 
the alley which leads to her dwelling — Well, 
well, I have been but six times there to-day 
already ; I may have a chance of seeing her 
atlast — I'll run after the old gentleman now — 
what a delightful witch it is ! [Exit hastily. 

Scene II. — withrington's house. 

Agnes and Mari.'INe discovered; MarianE 
reading a letter, and Agnes looking earnestly 
and glac'ly in her face. 

.'?i,r. My friend Edward is well, I see; pray 
whal does the traveller say for himself.' 

Mar. (putting up the letter.) You shall read 
it all by and by — every thing that is pleasant 
and kind. 

Jig. Heaven prosper yon both ! you are 
happier than I am with all my fortune, Ma- 
riane ; you have a sincere lover. 

Mar. And so have you, Agnes : Harwood 
will bear the trial : I have watch'd him closely, 
and I will venture my word upon him. 

.'jg. (taking her in her arms.) Now if thou 



THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 



65 



art not deceiv'd, thou art the dearest sweet 
cousin on earth ! {Pausing and looking seri- 
ously ) Ah no ! it cannot be ! I am but an or- 
dinar)'-looking girl, as my uncle says. (JPWi 
vivacity.) I would it were so ! 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir Loflus Prettyman and Mr. Opal. 

Mar. T am at home. {Exit Servant. J I 
can't attend to these fools till T have put up 
my letter : do you receive them ; I will soon 
return. [Exit. 

Enter Sir Loftus and Opal, dressed pretty 
2:;uch alike Sir Loftus makes a haughty 
distant bow to Agnes, and Opal makes anoth- 
er very like it. 

^g. liavc the goodness to be seated, Sir 
(to Sir Loftus). V ray, Sir {to Opal, viaking a 
courteous motion as if she icish'd them to sit 
down,) Miss Withrington will be here imme- 
diately. (Sir Loftus 7na/ies a slight bow with- 
out speaking ; Opal docs the same, and both 
saunter about tcith their hats in their hands.) 

.ig. I hope you had a pleasant walk after 
we left you, Sir Loftus.' 

Sir Loft, (looking affectedly, as if he did not 
understand her.) I beg pardon — O ! you were 
along with Miss Withrington. {Mumbling 
something ichich is not heard.) 

Jig. {to Op.) You are fond of that walk, 
Mr. Opal ; 1 think I have seen you there fre- 
quently. 

Op . Ma'am , you are very — {mumbling some- 
thing which is not heard, in the same manner 
with Sir Loftus, but still more absurd.) I do 
sometimes walk — (mumbling again.) 

.ig. {to Sir Loft.) The couritry is delight- 
ful round Bath. 

Sir Loft. Ma'am ! 

Jig. Don't you think so, Mr. Opal .' 

Op. 'Pon honour I never attended to it. {A 
long pause ; Sir Loftus fl/ifZ Opal str^d about 
conceitedly. Enter Mariane, and both of them, 
run up to her at once, with great pleasure and 
alacrity.) 

Sir Loft. I hope I see Miss Withrington 
entirely recovered from the fatigues of the 
morning .'' 

Mar. Pretty well, after the fatigue of dress- 
ing too, which is a great deal worse, Sir Lof- 
tus. (carelessly.) 

Op. For the ball, I presume .' 

Sir Loft. I am delighted — 

Mar. {addressing herself to Agnes, without 
attending to him.) Do you know what a pro- 
voking mistake my milliner has made ? 

Jig. I don't know. 

Sir Loft, 1 hope. Madam — 

Mar. {to Ag.) She has made up my dress 
with the colour of all others I dislike. 

Op. This is very provoking indeed, I 
would — 

Mar. {still speaking to Ag. without attend- 
ing to them.) And she has sent home my pet- 
ticoat all patch'd over with scraps of foil, like 
a Mayday dress for a chimney-sweeper. 
8 



Sir Loft, {ihrtisting in his face near Mariane, 
an,d endeavouring to be attended to.) A very 
good comparison, ha, ha ! 

Op. {thrusting in his face at the other side of 
her.) Very good indeed, ha, ha, ha ! 

Mar. {still speaking to Agnes, u^ho winks 
significantly without attending to them.) I'll say 
nothing about it, but never employ her again. 
Sir Loft., {Going round to her other car, and 
making another attempt.) I am delighted, Miss 
Withrington — 

Mar. {carelessly.) Are you. Sir Loftus ? 
{To Agnes,) I have broken my fan, pray put 
it by with your own, my dear Agnes ! {Exit 
Agnes into the adjoining room, and Sir Loftus 
gives Opal «. significant look upon ichich he 
retires to the bottom of the stage, and, after saun- 
tering a little there, Exit.) 

Sir Loft, {seeming a little piqued.) If you 
would have done me the honour to hear me. 
Ma'am, I should have said, I am delighted to 
see you dress'd, as I hope I may presume 
from rt you intend going to the ball to-night. 
Mar. Indeed I am too capricious to know 
whether I do or not ; do you think it will be 
pleasant .' 

Sir Loft. Very pleasant, if the devotions of 
a thousand admirers can make it so. 

Mar. O ! the devotions of a thousand ad- 
mirers, are like the good will of every body ; 
one steady friendship is worth it all. 

Sir Loft. From which may I infer, that one 
faithful adorer, in your eyes, outvalues all the 
thousand .'' {affecting to be tender.) Ah ! so 
Would I have Miss Withrington to believe ! 
and if that can be any inducement, she will 
find such a one there, most happy to attend 
her. 

Mar. Will she .'' I wonder who this may be : 
what kind of man is he, pray ^ 

Sir Loft, {with a conceited simper, at the 
same time in a pompous manner.) Perhaps it 
will not be boasting too much to say, he is a 
man of fashion, and not altogether insignifi- 
cant in the world. 

Mar. Handsome and accomplished- too, Sir 
Loftus ? 

Sir Loft. I must not presume, Ma'am, to 
boast of my accomplishments. 

Mar. {affecting a look of disappointment.) 
O ! lud ! so it is yourself afler all ! I have not 
so much penetration as I thought. ( Yaicning 
twice very loide.) Bless me ! what makes me 
yawn so .' I forgot to visit my old woman, 
who sells the cakes, this morning, that must 
be it. ( Yauming again.) Do you love ginger- 
bread. Sir Loftus .'' (Sir hoftus bites his lips, 
and struts proudly away to the other side of the 
stage, ichilst Agnes peeps from the closet, and 
makes signs of encouragement to Mariane. ) 

Mar. Well, after all, I believe it will be 
pleasant enough to go to the ball with such 
an accomplished attendant. 

Sir Loft, {taking encouragement and smoth- 
ering his pride.) Are you so obliging. Miss 
Withrington ? will you permit me to have the 
happiness of attending you .' 



66 



THE TRYAL i A COMEDY. 



Mar. If you'll promise to make it very 
agreeable to me : you are fond of dancing, I 
suppose ? 

Sir Loft. I'll do any thing you desire me ; 
but why throw away time so precious in the 
rough familiar exercise of dancing ? is there 
not something more distinguished, more re- 
fined, in enjoying the conversation of those 
we love ? 

Mar. In the middle of a crowd. Sir Loftus ? 

Sir Loft. What is tliat crowd to us ? we 
have nothing to do but to despise it : whilst 
they stare upon us with vulgar admiration, we 
shall talk together, smile together, attend only 
to each other, like beings of a different order. 

Mar. O! that will be delightful ! but don't 
you think we may just peep slyly over our 
shoulder now and then, to see them admiring 
us? ("Sir Loftus hitcs his lips again, and struts 
to the bottom of the stage, whilst Agnes peeps 
out from the closet, and makes signs to Mari- 
ane .) 

Mar. (carelessly pulling a small cti^c from 
her pocket.) Are not these handsome brilliants, 
Sir Loftus ? 

Sir Loft, (very much struck with the spark- 
lino- of the diamonds, hut pretending not to look 
at them.) Upon my word. Ma'am, I am no 
judge of trinkets. 

Mar. They are clumsily set ; I shall give 
them to my cousin. 

Sir Loft, (forgetting himself .) Why, Ma'am, 
do you seriously mean — They are of a most 
incomparable water ! 

Mar. (archly.) I thought you had not at- 
tended to them. 

Sir Loft. ( tenderly.) It is impossible, in tiae 
presence of Miss Witlirington, to think of 
any thing but the cruelty with which she im- 
poses silence on a heart that adores her. 

Mar. Nay, you entirely mistake me. Sir 
Loftus ; I am ready to hear you with the 
greatest good nature imaginable. 

.Si?- Loft. It is a theme, perhaps, on which 
my tongue would too long dwell. 

Mar. O [ not at all ; I have leisure and a 
great deal of patience too, at present ; I beg 
you would by no means hurry yourself 

Sir Loft, (after a pa^ise, looking foolish 
and embarrassed.) Few words, perhaps, will 
better suit the energy of passion. 

Mar. Just as you please, Sir Loftus ; if you 
chuse to say it in a few words I am Very well 
satisfied. 

(Another pause.) Sir Loftus very much embar- 
rassed.) 

Enter Withrington and Harwood : Sir Loft- 
us seems much relieved. 

Sir Loft, (aside.) Heaven be praised, they 
are come ! 

Mar. (to With.) I thought you were to have 
brought Mr. R'oyston with you. 

tVith. He left us at a shop by the way, to 
enquire the price of turnip-seed ; but he will 
be here by-and-by if a hundred other things 
do not prevent him. (Botes to Sir Loftus ; then 



turns to Harwood, and speaks as if he resum>- 
cd a conversation which had just been broken 
off, whilst Sir Loftus and Mariano retire to the 
bottom of the stage.) I perfectly agree with you, 
Mr. Harwood, that the study and preparation 
requisite for your profession is not altogether 
a dry treasuring up of facts in the memory, as 
many of your young students conceive : he 
who pleads the cause of man before fellow- 
men, must know what is in the heart of man 
as well as in the book of records ; and what 
study is there in nature so noble, so interest- 
ing as this .' 

Hur. But the most pleasing part of our 
task, my good Sir, is not the least difficult. 
Where application only is wanting I shall not 
be left behind ; for I am not witiioul ambition, 
though the younger son of a family by no 
means affiuent ; and I have a widowed moth- 
er, whose hopes of seeing me respectable must 
not be disappointed. I assure you there is 
nothing — (Listening.) 

With. Go on, Mr. Harwood, I have great 
pleasure in hearing 3'ou. 

Har. I thought I heard a door move. 

With. It is Agnes in the next room, I dare 
say ; she is always making a noise. 

Har. In the next room ! 

With. But you were going to assure me^- 
Have the goodness to proceed. 

Har. I was going to say — I rather think I 
said — I am sure — (Listening again.) 

With. Poo ! there is no'oodj^ there. 

Har. Well, I said — I think I told you — In 
faith, my good Sir, I will tell you honestly, 
I have forgot what I meant to say . 

With. No matter, you will remember it 
again. Ha, ha, ha ! it puts me in mind of a 
little accident which happened to myself 
when I was in Lincoln's-Inn. Two or three 
of us met one evening, to be cheerful togeth- 
er, and — ( Whilst Withrington begins his story, 
Agnes enters softly from the adjoining closet 
unpei ccived ; but Harwood on seeing her runs 
eagerly up to her, leaving Withrington aston- 
ished, in the middle of his discourse.) 

Har. (to Ag.) Ha ! After so many false 
alarms, you steal upon us at last like a little 
thief 

Jig. And I steal semething very good from 
you too, if you lose my uncle's story by this 
interruption ; for I know by his face he was 
telling one. 

With. Raillery is not alwa3-s well timed, 
Miss Agnes Withrington. 

Jig. Nay, do not be cross witii us. Sir. 
Mr. Harwood knew it was too good to be 
spent upon one pair of ears, so he calls in 
another to partake. 

Kith. Get along, biiggage. 

.^g. So I will, uncle ; for I know that only 
means with you, that 1 should place myself 
close to your elbow. 

JVith. Well, two or three of us young fel- 
lows were met — did I not say — 

Jig. At Lincoln's-Inn. (Withrington hesi- 
tates.) 



THE TRYAL . A COMEDY. 



67 



Har. She has named it, Sir. 

JVith. I know well enough it was there. 
And if I remember well, George Buckner 
was one of us. (Agnes gives a gentle hem to 
.suppress a cough.) 

Har. {eagerly.) You was going to speak, 
Miss Withrington .' 

Jig. No, indeed, I was not. 

IVith. Well, George Buckner and two or 
three more of us — We were in a very pleas- 
ant humour that night — (Agnes making a 
slight motion of her hand to fasten some pin in 
her dress.) 

Har. {eagerly.) Do you not want something.'' 
{To Agnes.) 

Jig. No, I thank you, I want nothing. 

JVith. {half amused, half peevish.) Nay, say 
what you please to one another, for my story 
is ended. 

Har. My dear Sir, we are perfectly atten- 
tive. 

Jig. Now, pray, uncle ! 

With, {to Ag.) Now pray hold thy tongue. 
1 forgot, I must consult the Court Calendar 
on Royston's account. {Goes to a table and 
takes up a red hook which he turns over.) 

Jig. {to Har.) How could you do so to my 
uncle.' I would not have interrupted him for 
the world. 

Har. Ay, chide me well ; I dearly love to 
be chidden. 

^g. Do not invite me to it. I am said to 
have a very good gift that way, and you will 
soon have too much I believe. 

Har. O no ! I would come every hour to 
be chidden ! 

Jig. And take it meekly too .' 

Har. Nay, I would have my revenge : I 
should call you scolding Agnes, and little Ag- 
nes, and my little Agnes. 

Jig. You forget my dignity, Mr. Harwood. 

Har. Oh ! you put all dignity out of coun- 
tenance ! The great Mogul himself would 
forget his own in your presence. 

^g. But they are going to the garden : I 
am resolved to be one of the party. {Jls she 
goes to join Sir Loftus a7id Mariane, ?Mo 0])en 
a glass door leading to the garden, Harwood 
goes before, icalking backwards, and his face 
turned to her.) You will break your pate 
presently, if you walk with that retrograde 
step, like a dancing-master giving me a les- 
son. Do you think I shall follow you as if 
you had the fiddle in your hand ? 

Har. Ah, Miss Withrington ! it is you 
who have got the fiddle, and I who must 
follow. [Exeunt into the garden. 

Re-enter Sir Loftcs from the Garden, looking 
about for his hat. 

Sir Loft. O ! here it is. 

Enter Opal. 

Op. What, here alone .' 
Sir Loft. She is in the garden, I shall join 
Jier immediately. 

Op. All goes on well I suppose ? 



Sir Loft. Why I don't know how it is — 
nobody hears us .'' {Looking round.) I don't 
know how it is, but she does not seem to com- 
prehend perfectly in what light I am regard- 
ed by the world : that is to say, by that part 
of it which deserves to be called so. 

Op. No ! that is strange enough. 

Sir Loft. Upon my honour, she treats me 
with as much careless familiarity as if I were 
some plain neighbour's son in the country. 

Op. 'Pen honour this is very strange. 

Sir Loft. I am not without hopes of suc- 
ceeding ; but I will confess to you, I wish 
she would change her manner of behaving to 
me. On the word of a gentleman, it is shock- 
ino- ! Suppose you were to give her a hint, 
that she may j ust have an idea of the respect 
which is paid by every well-bred person — You 
understand me. Opal .-' 

Op. O ! perfectly'. I shall give her to know 
that men like us, my dear friend — 

Sir Loft, {not quite satisfied) I don't know 
— Suppose you were to leave out all mention 
of yourself — Your own merit could not fail to 
be inferred. 

Op. Well, I shall do so. 

Sir Loft. Let us go to the garden, 

[Exeunt. 

Enter Miss Eston, speaking- as she enters. 

I have been all over the town, and here 1 
am at last quite tired to death. How do you 
— {Looking round.) O la ! there is nobody 
here. Mr. Opal is gone too. I'll wait till 
they return. {Takes up a hook, then looks at 
herself in the glass, then takes up the book again . 
Yatcning.) 'Tis all about imagination and 
the understanding, and I don't know what — 
I dare say it is good enough to read of a Sun- 
day. {Yaions and lays it doicn.) O la ! I 
wish they would come ! 

Enter Royston, and takes Miss Eston for Miss 
Withrington. 

Roy. Madam, I have the honour to be your 
very humble servant. — I hoped to have been 
here sooner, but I have been so overwhelmed 
with a multiplicity of affairs ; and you know, 
Madam, when that is tne case — 

Est. {taking the word out of his mouth.) 
One is never master of one'« time for a mo- 
ment. I'm sure I have been all over the 
town this morning, looking after a hundred 
things, till my head has been put into such 
a confusion! "La, Ma'am!" said my mil- 
liner, " do take some lavender drops, you look 
so pale." " VVh}'," says I, "I don't much 
like to take them, Mrs. Trollop, they an't 
always good." 

Roy. No more they are, Ma'am, you are 
very right: and if a silly fellow I know, had 
taken my advice last year, and bought up 
the crops of lavender, he would have made — 

Est. {taking the. icord from him again.) A 
very good fortune, I dare say. But people 
never will take advice, which is very foolish 
in them, to be sure. Now I always take — 



68 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



Roy. Be so good as to hear me, Ma'am. 

Est. Certainly, Sir; for I always say, if 
they give me advice it is for my good, and 
why should not I take it? 

Roij. {edging in his inurd as fust as he can.) 
And the damned foolish fellow too ! I once 
saved him from being cheated in a horse ; 
and — 

Est. La ! there are such cheats ! a friend 
of mine bought a little lap-dog the other day — 

Roij. But the horse, Ma'am, was — 
■ Est. Not worth a guinea, I dare say. Why, 
they had the impudence to palm it on my 
friend — 

Both speaking together. 

Est. As a pretty little dog which had been 
bred 

Roy. It was a good mettled horse, and might 

E. up for a lady of quality, and when she 
had 

R have passed as a good purchase at the 
money, 

E. just made a cushion for it at the foot of 
her 

R. but on looking his fore feet — {Stops 
short, and lets her go on.) 

E. own bed, she found it was all over man- 
gy. I'm sure I would rather have a plain 
wholesome cat than the prettiest mangy dog 
in the kingdom. 

Roy. Certainly, Ma'am. And I assure you 
the horse — for says I to the groom — 

Both speaking together. 

Est. O ! I dare say it was — and who would 
Roy. What is the matter with this pastern, 
E. have suspected that a dog bred up on 
R. Thomas ? it looks as if it were rubbed — 
{Stops short again, and looks at her with as- 
tonishment as she goes on talking.) 
E. purpose for a lady of quality, should be 
all over so ! Nasty creature ! It had spots 
upon its back as large as my watch. {Tak- 
ing up her watch.) O la ! I am half an hour 
after my time. My mantua-maker is wait- 
ing for me. Good morning. Sir ! 

[Exit, hastily. 
Rot/, {looking after her.) Clack, clack, 
clack, clack ! What a devil of a tongue she 
has got ! 'Faith ! George shall have her, 
and ril e'en ask the place for myself. {Look- 
ing out.) But there is company in the gar- 
den : I'll go and join them. 

[Exit to the garden. 



ACT III. 



Scene I. — mr. withrington's house. 

A LOUD LAUGHING WITHOUT. 

Enter Royston, in a great rage. 

Roy. Ay ay, laugh away, laugh away. Mad- 
am ! you'll weep by-and-by, mayhap. {Pauses 
and listens ; laughing still heard.) What an 



infernal noise the jade makes ! I wish she had 
a peck of chaff in her mouth ! I am sure it is 
wide enough to hold it. 

Enter Humphry. 

Humph. I have been seeking your honour 
every where — Lord, Sir ! I have something 
to tell you. 

Roy. Confound your tales ! don't trouble 
me with a parcel of nonsense. 

Humph, {staring at him and hearing the 
laughing without.) For certain, your honour, 
there's somebody in this house merrier than 
you or I. ■ 

Roy. Damn you, Sir! how do you know I 
am not merry .' Go home, and do what I or- 
dered you directly. If that fellow Jonathan 
is not in the way, I'll horse-whip him within 
an inch of his life. Begone, I say ; why do 
you stand staring at me like a madman ? 

[Exeunt. 

Enter Mariane and Agnes, by opposite sides. 

Mar. {holding her sides.) I shan't be able 
to laugh again for a month. 

Jig. You have got rid of one lover, who 
will scarcely attempt you a second time. I 
have met him hurrying through the hall, and 
muttering to himself like a madman. It is 
not your refusal of his son that has so roused 
him. 

Mar. No, no ; he began his courtship in a 
doubtful way, as if he would recommend a 
gay young husband to my choice ; but a sly 
compliment to agreeable men of a middle 
age, brought him soon to speak plainly for 
himself. 

Jig. But how did you provoke him so .'' 

Mar. I will tell you another time. It is 
later than I thought. {Looking at her watch.) 

Jig. Don't go yet. How stands it with you 
and a certain gentleman I recommended to 
your notice .■' 

Mar. O ! he does not know whether I am 
tall or short, brown or fair, foolish or sensible, 
after all the pains I have taken with him ; he 
has eyes, ears, and understanding, for nobody 
but you, Agnes, and I will attempt him no 
more. He spoke to me once with animation 
in his countenance, and I turned round to 
listen to him eagerly, but it was only to re- 
peat to me something you had just said, 
which, to deal plainly with you, had not 
much wit in it neither. I don't know how it 
is, he seemed to me at first a pleasanter man 
than he proves to be. 

Jig. Say not so, Mariane I he proves to be 
most admirable ! 

Mar. Well, be it so, he cannot prove bet- 
ter than I wish him to do, and I can make 
up my list without him. I have a love-letter 
from an Irish baronet in my pocket, and Opal 
will declare himself presently. — I thought 
once he meant only to plead for his friend ; 
but I would not let him off so, for I know he 
is a mercenary creature. I have flattered 
him a little at the expence of Sir Loftus, and 



THE TRYAL t A COMEDY. 



69 



I hope, ere long, to set him up for a great 
man upon his own bottom. 

^g. iSo it was only to repeat to you some- 
thing that I had been saying ? 

Mar. Ha! you are thinking of this still. I 
believe, indeed, he sets down every turn of 
your eye in his memory, and acts it all over 
in secret. 

Jig. Do you think so.' give me your hand, 
my dear Mariane; you are a very good cous- 
in" to me — Marks every turn of mine eye ! I 
am not quite such an ordinary girl as my un- 
cle says — My complexion is as good as your 
own, Mariane, if it were not a little sun-burnt. 
(Mariane smiles.) Yes, smile at my vanity 
as you please; for what makes me vain, 
makes me so good-humoured too, that I will 
forgive you. But here comes uncle. (S/dp- 
ping us she goes to meet him.) I am light as 
an "air-ball ! {Enter Mr. Withrington.) My 
dear Sir, how long you have been away from 
us this morning ! I am delighted to see you 
pleased and so happy. 

With, {with a very sour face.) You are 
mistaken, young lady, I am not so pleased as 
you think. 

jjg. O no, sir ! you are very good-humour- 
ed. Isn't he, Mariane .'' 

JVith. But I say I am in a very bad hu- 
mour. Get along with your foolery ! 

Jg. Is it really so .'' Let me look in your 
face, uncle. To be sure your brows are a 
little knit, and your eyes a little gloomy, but 
that is nothing to be called bad humour ; if I 
could not contrive to look crabbeder than all 
this comes to, I would never pretend to be 
ill-humoured in my life. (Mariane and Ag- 
nes take him by the hands, and begin to play 
with hiin.) 

With. No, no, young ladies, I am not in a 
mood to be played with. I can't approve of 
every farce you please to play off in my fami- 
ly ; nor to have my relations affronted, and 
driven from my house for your entertainment. 

Mar. Indeed, Sir, I treated Royston better 
than he deserved ; for he would not let me 
have time to give a civil denial, but ran on 
planning settlements and jointures, and a 
hundred things besides: I could just get in 
my word to stop his career with a flat refusal, 
as he was about to provide for our descen- 
dants of the third generation. O ! if you had 
seen his face then, uncle ! 

With. I know very well how you have treat- 
ed him. 

^g. Don't be angry, Sir. What does aman 
• like Royston care for a refusal.' he is only 
angry tliat he can't take the law of her for 
laughing at him. 

With. Let this be as it may, I don't chuse 
to have my house in a perpetual bustle from 
morning till night, with your plots and your 
pastimes. There is no more order nor distinc- 
tion kept up in my house, than if it were a 
cabin in Kamschatka, and common to a whole 
tribe. In every corner of it I find some visi- 
tor, or showman, or milliner's apprentice, loi- 



tering about : my best books are cast upon 
footstools and window-seats, and my library 
is littered over with work-bags : dogs, cats, 
and kittens, take possession of every chair, 
and refuse to be disturbed : and the very beg- 
gar children go hopping before my door with 
their half-eaten scraps in their hands, as if it 
were the entry to a workhouse.. 

Jig. {clapping his shoulder gently.) Now 
don't be impatient, my dear Sir, and every 
thing shall be put into such excellent order 
as shall delight you to behold. And as for 
the beggar children, if any of them dare but 
to set their noses near the house, I'll — What 
shall I do with them. Sir .' {Favses and looks 
in his face, which begins to relent.) I believe 
we must not be very -severe with them after 
all. {Both take his hands and coax him.) 

With. Come, come, ofl' hands, and let me 
sit down. I am tired of this. 

•^g- Yes, uncle, and here is one seat, you 
see, with no cat upon it. (Withrington sits 
dozen, and Agnes takes a little stool and sits 
down at his feet, curling her nose as she looks 
uj) to him, and making a good-inimourcd face.) 

With. Well, it may be pleasant enough, 
girls; but allow me to say, all this playing, 
and laughing, and hoidening about, is not 
gentlewomanlike ; nay, I might say, is not 
maidenly. A high-bred elegant woman, is a 
creature which man approaches witli aw'e and 
respect; but nobody would think of accosting 
you with such impressions, any more than if 
you were a couple of young female tinkers. 

Jig. Don't distress yourself about this, Sir ; 
we shall get the men to bow to us, and trem- 
ble before us too, as well as e'er a hoop petti- 
coat or long ruffles of them all. 

With. Tremble before you ! ha, ha, ha ! 
{To Agnes.) Who would tremble before thee, 
dost thou think ? 

Jig. No despicable man, perhaps: What 
think you of your favourite, Harwood .' 

With. Poo, poo, poo ! he is pleased with 
thee as an amusing and good-natured crea- 
ture, and thou thinkest he is in love with thee, 
forsooth. 

•fig- A good-natured creature! he shall think 
me a vixen and be pleased with me. 

With. No, no, not quite so far gone, I be- 
lieve. 

Ag. I'll bet you two hundred pounds that 
it is so. If I win, you shall pay it to Mariane 
for w^edding trinkets ; and if you win, you 
may build a couple of alms-houses. 

Witli. Well,beitso. We shall see, we shall 
see. 

Mar. Indeed we shallsee you lose your bet, 
uncle. 

With, {to Mar.) Yes, baggage, I shall have 
your prayers against me, I know. 

Enter Servant, and announces Mr. Opal. 
Enter Opal. 

Op. {to Mar.) I hope I have the pleasure 
of seeing Miss Withrington well this morn- 
ing. {Bows distantly to Withrington, and still ■ 



70 



THE TRYAL i A COMEDY, 



TRorc so to Agnes, after the manner of Sir Lof- 
tus.^ 

IVith. Your servant, Sir. 

Mar. {to Op.) How did you like the ball 
last night ? There was a gay, genteel-looking 
company. 

0)). {with affected s^iperlority.) Excepting 
Lord Saunter, and Lord Poorly, and Sir Lof- 
tus, and one or two more of us, I did not know 
a soul in the room. 

JVith. There were some pretty girls there, 
Mr. Opal. 

Op. I am very glad to hear it, 'pon honour. 
I did not — {MumUlng .) 

With. («s«<Ze.) Affected puppy ! I can't bear 
to look at him. [Exit. 

Mar. {assuming a gayer air as Withrington 
goes out.) You will soon have a new beau to 
enrich your circle. Mr. Opal, the handsome 
and accomplished Colonel Beaumont. He is 
just returned from abroad, and is now quite 
the fashion. {To Agnes.) Don't you think 
Mr. Opal resembles him .'' 

Jig. O ! very much indeed. 

Oj). {bowing very gracioushi^ Does he not 
resemble Sir Loftus too.'' I mean in his air 
and his manner. 

Mar. O ! not at all ! That haughty coldness 
of his is quite old-fashioned now ; so unlike 
the affable frankness so much admired in the 
Colonel : you have seen him I presume .' , 

Op. I have never had that honour. 

Mar. Then you will not be displeased at 
the likeness we have traced when you do. 

Op. {^relaxing from his dignity, and highly 
pleased.) The greatest pleasure of my life, 
Ma'am, will be to resemble what pleases yon. 
(Mariane gives Agnes the wink, and she re- 
tires to the bottom, of the stage.) 

Mar. You flatter me infinitely. 

Op. Ah ! call it not flattery, charming Miss 
Withrington ! for now I will have the bold- 
ness to own to you frankly, I have been, 
since the first moment I beheld you, your 
sincere, your most passionate admired. Upon 
hon — {correcting himself.) 'faith I have ! 

Mar. Nothing but my own want of merit 
can make me doubt of any thing Mr. Opal 
asserts upon his honour or his faith. {Turn- 
ing and tcalking loumrds the bottom of the 
stage, whilst Opal follows her talking in dumb 
show; til en Agnos joins them, and they all 
come forward to the front.) 

Jig. {to Mar.) How much that turn of his 
head puts me in mind of the Colonel ! 

Mar. So it does, my Agnes. {To Opal.) 
Pray have the goodness to hold it so for a 
moment ! There now, it is just the very thing. 
(Opal holds his head in a constrained ridicu- 
lous posture, and then makes a conceited how.) 
His very manner of bowing too ! one would 
swear it was him ! 

^g. Yes, only the Colonel is more famil- 
liar, more easy in his carriage. 

Op. O I Ma'am ! i assure you I have for- 
merly — It is my natural manner to be remark- 
ably easy — But I — {pauses.) 



Mar. Have never condescended to assume 
any other tlian your natural manner, I hope. 

Qp. O ! not at all, I detest affectation ; 
there is nothing I detest so much — But upon 
my soul ! I can't tell how it is, I have been 
graver of late. I am, indeed, sometimes 
thoughtful. 

Mar. O fy upon it ! don't be so any more. 
It is quite old-fashioned and ridiculous now. 
{To Agnes, loinking significantly.) Did you 
see my gloves any where about the room, 
cousin .' 

Op. I'll find them. ( Goes to look for them 
icith great briskness — Servant announces Miss 
Eston.) 

Op. Pest take her ! I stared at her once in 
a mistake, and she has ogled and followed me 
ever since. 

Enter Miss Eston, running up to M.\riane and 
Agnes, and pretending not to see Opal, 
though she cannot help looking askance at him 
while she speaks. 

Est. O my dear creatures ! you can't think 
how I have longed to see you. Mrs. Thom- 
son kept me so long this morning, and you 
know she is an intolerable talker. {Pretend- 
ing to discover Opal.) O ! how do you do, Mr. 
Opal .' I declare I did not observe you ! 

Op. {with a distant haughty bow.) I am 
obliged to you, Ma'am. 

Est. I did see your figure, indeed, but I 
mistook it for Sir Loflus. 

Op. {correcting himself and assuming a 
cheerful frank manner .) O Ma'am ! you are 
very obliging, to observe me at all. I believe 
Prettyman and I may be nearly of the same 
height. {Looking at his watch.) I am be- 
yond my appointment, I see. Excuse me ; I 
must hurry away. [Exit, hastily. 

Est. {looking after him ivith marks of disap- 
pointment.) i am very glad he is gone. He 
does so haunt me, and stare at me, I am quite 
tired of it. The first time I ever saw him, 
you remember how he looked nie out of coun- 
tenance. I was resolved before I came not 
to take notice of him. 

Mar. So you knew you should find him 
here, then. 

Est. O la ! one don't know of a morning 
who one may meet ; as likely him as any 
body else, you know. I really wonder now 
what crotchet he has taken into his head 
about me. Do j'ou know, last night, before 
twilight. I peeped over the blind, and saw 
him walking with slow pensive steps under 
my window. 

Mar. Well, what happened then ? 

Est. I drew in my head, you maybe sure; 
but a little while after, I peeped out again, 
and, do you know, I saw him coming out of 
the perfumer's shop, just opposite my dress- 
ing-room, where he had been all the while. 

Mar. Very well, and what happened next.' 

Est. La I nothing more. But was it not 
very odd ? What should he be doing all that 
time in that little paltry shop.' The great 



THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



71 



shop near the Circus is the place where 
every body buys perfumery. 

Ag. No, there is nothing very odd in Mr. 
Opal's buying perfumes at a very paltry shop, 
where he might see and be seen by a very 
pretty lady. 

Est. (with her face hrightning up.) Do you 
think so.-" O no ! you don't? 
• Jig. To be sure I do. But I know what is 
very strange. 

Est. O la, dear creature ! What is it .' 

Jig. He bought his perfumes there before 
you came, when there was no such induce- 
ment. Is not that very odd.' (Eston pauses, 
and looks silbj.) 

Enter Mr. Withrington, but upon perceiving 
Eston bows and retreats again. 

Est. {recorering herself.) Ha ! how do you 
do, Mr. Withrington .' I have just seen j'our 
friend, Lady Fade. Poor dear soul ! she 
says- — 

With. I am sorry. Ma'am, it is not in my 
power at present — I am in a hurry, I have an 
appointment. Your servant, Ma'am. [Exit. 

Est. Well , now this is very odd ! Wher- 
ever I go, I find all the men just going out to 
some appointment. O, 1 forgot to tell you, 
Mrs. Thomson has put a new border to her 
drawing-room, just like the one up stairs. 
Has it not a dark blue ground? (ToMariane.) 

Mar. I'm sure I cannot tell, let us go up 
stairs and see [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — before mr. withrington's 

HOUSE. 

Enter Harwood. 

Well, here I am again, yet devil take me 
if I can muster up resolution enough to toucli 
the knocker I what a fool was I to call twice 
this morning ! for with what face can I now 
visit her again ? The old gentleman will look 
strangely at me ; the fine heiress her cousin 
will stare at me ; nay, the very servants begin 
already to smile with impertinent significance, 
as I inquire with conscious foolishness, if the 
ladies are at home. Then Agnes herself will 
look so drolly at me — Ah ! but she will look 
so pleasantly too ! — 'Faith! I'll e'en go. {Goes 
to the door, puts his hand up to the knocker, 
stops short, and turns from it again. Pauses.) 
What a fool am I, to stand thinking about it 
here. If I were but fairly in the room with 
her, and the first salutation over, I should not 
care if the devil himself made faces at me. Oh 
no ! every body is good-liumoured, every thing 
is happy that is near her ! the kitten who plays 
by her side takes hold of her gown unchidden. 
How pleasant it is to love what is so blessed ! 
I should hate the fairest woman on earth if 
she were not of a sweet temper. Come, come ; 
every thing favours me here, but my own 
foolish fancies, {-is he goes to the door again, 
it opens, and enters from the house, Bettj', cry 
ing, with a bundle in her hand.) 



■ Bet. O dear me ! O dear me ! 

Har. What is the matter with you, my good 
girl ? 

Bet. I'm sure it was not my fault, and she 
has abused me worser than a heathen. 

Har. That is hard indeed. 

Bet. Indeed it is. Sir ; and all for a little 
nasty essence-bottle, which was little better 
than a genteel kind of a stink at the best ; and 
I am sure I did but take out the stopper to 
smell to it, when it came to pieces in my hand 
like an egg-shell. If bottles will break, how 
can I help it ? but la ! Sir, there is no speak- 
ing reason to my mistress ; she is as furious 
and as ill-tempered as a dragon. 

Har. Don't distress yourself; Miss Agnes 
Witlirington will make amends to you for the 
severity of your mistress. 

Bet. She truly ! it is she herself who is my 
mistress, and she has abused me — O dear me ! 
— If it had been Miss Withrington, she would 
not have said a word to me ; but Miss Agnes 
is so cross, and so ill-natured, there is no liv- 
ing in the house with her. 

Har. Girl, you are beside yourself! 

Bet. No, Sir, God be praised ! but she is 
beside herself, I believe. Does she think I 
am going to live in her service to be call'd 
names so, and compared toa blackamoor too? 
If I had been waiting-maid to the queen, she 
would not have compared me to a blacka- 
moor, and will I take such usage from her ? 
— what do I care for her cast gowns ? 

Har. Well, but she is liberal to you ? 

Bet. She liberal ! she'll keep every thing 
that is worth keeping to herself, I warrant ; 
and Lord pity those who are bound to live 
with her ! I'll seek out a new place for my- 
self, and let the devil, if l;e will, wait upon 
her next, in the shape of a blackamoor : they 
will be fit company for one another ; and if he 
gets the better of her at scolding, he is a bet- 
ter devil than I take him for. And I am sure, 
Sir, if you were to see her — 

Har. Get along ! get along ! you are too 
passionate yourself, to be credited. 

Bet. I know what I know ; I don't care 
what nobody says, no more I do ; I know 
who to complain to. [Exit, grumbling. 

Har. {alone.) What a malicious toad it is I 
I dare say now, she has done something very 
provoking. I cannot bear these pert chamber- 
maids ; the very sight of them is offensive to 
me. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jon. Good evening to your honour; can 
j'ou tell me if Mr. Withrington be at home ? 
for as how, my master has sent me with a 
message to him. 

Har. {impatiently.) Go to the house and 
inquire ; I know nothing about it. (Jonathan 
goes to the house.) 

Har. {alone, after musing some time.) That 
girl has put me out of all heart tliough, with 
her cursed stories. — No, no, it cannot be — it 
is impossible ? 



72 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDYi 



Re-enter Jonathan from the house, scratching 
his head, and looking behind him. 

Jon. 'Faith there is hot work going on 
amongst them ! thank heaveti I am out again. 

H<ir. What do you mean ? 

Jon. 'Faith ! that little lady, in that there 
house, is the best hand at a scold, saving 
Mary Macmurrock, my wife's mother, that 
ever my two blessed eyes looked upon. Lord 
Sir, {going nearer h'nn) her tongue goes ting, 
ting, ting, as shrill as the bell of any pieman ; 
and then, Sir, {going nearer him) her two eyes 
look out of her head, as though they were a 
couple of glow-worms ! and then. Sir, he, he, 
he! {laughing and going close up to him.) 
She claps her little hands so, as if — 

Hnr. Shut your fool's mouth and be damned 
to you ! {Kicks Jonathan off the stage in a vio- 
lent passion ; then leans his hack to a tree, and 
seems thoughtful for some time and very much 
troubled.) 

Enter Agnes from the house, with a stormy look 
on her face. 

^g. So you are still loitering here, Har- 
wood ^ you have been very much amused, I 
suppose, with the conversation of those good 
folks you have talked with. 

Har. No, not much amused. Madam, though 
somewhat astonished, I own ; too rnuch aston- 
ished, indeed, to give it any credit. 

Jig. Oh ! it is true though ; I have been 
very cross with the girl, and very cross with 
every body ; and if you don't clear up that 
dismal face of yours,! shall be cross with you 
too : what could possess you to stay so long 
under the chestnut-tree, a little while ago, 
always appearing as if you were coming to 
the house, and always turning back again ? 

Har. {eagerly.) And is it possible, you were 
then looking at me, and observing my motions? 

Jig. Indeed I was just going to open my 
window and beckon to you, when that crea- 
ture broke my phial of sweet essence, and 
put me quite out of temper. 

Har. riang the stupid jade ! I could — 

Ag. So you are angry too ? O ! well done ! 
we are fit company tor one another. Come 
along with me, come, come! {impatiently. 
As she turns to go, soinething catches hold of 
her goicn.) What is this .■' confounded thing ! 
(Pulls away her gown in a passion, and tears 
it.) 

Har. {aside.) Witch that she is ! she should 
be beaten for her humours. I will not go with 
her. 

Jig. {looking behind.) So you won't go in 
with me .■' good evening to you then : wc did 
want a fourth person to make up a party with 
us ; but since you don't like it, we shall send 
to Sir Loftus, or Opal, or Sir UlockO' Grady, 
or some other good creature; 1 dare say Sir 
Loftus will come. 

Har. {half aside.) Cursed coxcomb ! If 
ne sets his snout within the door, I'll pistol 
him. 



Jig. {overhearing him.) Hal well said ! you 
will make the best company in the world. 
Come along, come along ! {He follows her half 
unwillingly.) Why don't you offer your arm 
here? don't you see how rough it is? {He 
offers his arm.) Poo, not that arm ! {Offers her 
the other.) Poo, not so neither, on t'other side 
of me. 

Har. What a humoursome creature yau 
are ! I have offer'd you two arms, and neither 
of them will do ; do you think I have a third 
to offer you ! 

£g. You are a simpleton, or you would 
have half a dozen at n>y service. 

[Exeunt into the house. 



ACT IV. 
Scene I. — harwood's lodgings, he 

IS DISCOVERED WALKING ABOUT WITH 
AN IRREGULAR DISTURBED STEP, HIS 
HAIR AND DRESS ALL NEGLECTED AND 
IN DISORDER; HE COMES FORWARD TO 
THE FRONT OF THE STAGE. . 

Har. I have neither had peace nor sleep 
since I beheld her ; O ! that I had never known 
her ! or known her only such as my first fond 
fancy conceived her! — I would my friend 
were come ; I will open my heart to him; he 
perhaps will speak comfort to me ; for surely 
that temper must be violent indeed, which 
generous affection cannot subdue ; and she 
must be extravagant beyond all bounds of 
nature, who would ruin the fond husband 
who toils for her. No, no, nature makes not 
such, but when she sets her scowling mark 
upon their forehead to warn us from our ruin. 
(Pauses, walks up and doion, then comes for- 
ward again.) Insipid constitutional good na- 
ture is a tiresome thing ; passion subdued by 
reason is worth a score of it — and passion sub- 
dued by love ? — O ! that were better still ! — 
yesterday, as I entcr'd her door, I heard her 
name me to her cousin, with so much gentle 
softness in her voice, I blest her as she spoke. 
— Ah ! if this were so, all might still be well. 
Who would not struggle with the world for 
such a creature as this .'' — Ay, and I must 
struggle ! — O ! that this head of mine would 
give over thinking but for one hah" hour ! 
{Rings the bell.) 

Enter Thomas. 

What brings you here, Thomas ? 

Thorn. Your bell rung, Sir. 

Har. Well, well, I did want something, 
but I have forgot it. Bring me a glass of 
water. [Exit Thomas. Harwood sits doicn 
by a. small writing-table, and rests his head 
upon his hand. Re-enter Thomas with the 
loater.) You have made good haste, Thomas. 

Thorn.. I did make good haste. Sir, lest you 
should be impatient with mo. 

Har. I am sometimes imp-atient with you, 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



73 



then ? I fear indeed I have been too often so 
of late ; but you must not mind it, Thomas, I 
mean you no unkindness. 

Tkoin. Lord love you. Sir I I know that 
very well 1 A young gentleman who takes 
an old man into his service, because other 
gentlemen do riot think him quick enough, 
nor smart enough for them, as your honour 
has taken me, can never mean to show him 
any unkindness : I know it well enough; I 
am only uneasy because I fear you are not so 
well of late. 

Har. I thank you, Thomas, I am not very 
well — I am not ill neither ; I shall be better. 
(Pauses.) I think I have heard you say, you 
were a soldier in your youth ? 

Thorn. Yes, Sir. 

Har. And you had a wife too, a woman of 
fiery mettle, to bear about your knapsack .' 

Thorn. Yes, Sir, my little stout spirity Jane ; 
she had a devil of a temper, to be sure. 

Har. Yet you loved her notwithstanding ? 

Thorn. Yes, to be sure I did, as it were, bear 
her some kindness. 

Har. I'll be sworn you did ! — and you 
would have been very sorry to have parted 
with her. 

Thoni. Why death parts the best of friends, 
Sir ; we lived but four years together. 

Har. And so your little spirity Jane was 
taken so soon away from you.'' Give me thy 
hand, my good Thomas. {Takes his hand and 
presses it.) 

Thorn, (perceiving tears in his eyes.) Lord, 
Sir ! don't be so distressed about it : she did 
die, to be sure ; but truly, between you and L 
although I did make a kind of whimpering at 
the first, I was not ill pleased afterwards to 
be rid of her ; for, truly, Sir, a man who has 
got an ill-tempered wife, has but a dog's life 
of it at the best. — Will you have your glass 
of water. Sir ? 

Har. {looking at him tvith dissatisfaction.) 
No, no, take it away ; I have told you a hun- 
dred times not to bring me that chalky water 
from the court-yard. {Turns away from 
him.) 

Enter Colonel Hardv. — Harwood makes 
signs to Thomas, and he goes out. 

Har. My dear Colonel, this is kind : I am 
very glad to see you. 

Col. It is so seldom that a young fellow 
has any inclination for the company of an old 
man, that I should feel myself vain of the 
summons you have sent me, were I not afraid, 
from this dishabille, my dear Harwood, that 
you are indisposed. 

Har. You are Very good ; I am not indis- 
posed. I have indeed been an.\ious — 1 rested 
inditferently last night — I liape I see you 
well. 

Col. Very well, as you may guess from the 

speed I have made in coming to you. These 

legs do not always carry me so fast. But 

you have sometliing particular to say to me. 

!) 



Hiir. I am very sensible of your friendship. 
— Pray, Colonel, be seated. — {They sit down 
— a long pause — Colonel Hardy, /iA:<! one ex- 
pecting to hear something : Harwood, like one 
who knows not hoic to begin.) — Tiiere are 
moments in a man's life, Colonel Hardy, 
when the advice of a friend is of the greatest 
value ; particularly one, who has also been 
his father's friend- 

Col. My heart very warmly claims both 
those relations to you, Harwood ; and I shall 
be happy to advise you as well as 1 am able. 
Har. {after another pause.) I am about to 
commence a laborious profession. — The mind 
is naturally anxious — {Pauses.) 

Col. But you are too capable of exercising 
well that profession, to suffer much uneasi- 
ness. 

Har. Many a man with talents superiour 
to mine has sunk beneath the burden. 

Coi. And man}^ a man, with talents vastly 
inferiour to yours, has borne it up with credit. 
Har. Ah ! what avails the head with an 
estranged heart ? 

Col. You are disgusted then with your 
profession, and have pcrJiaps, conceived more 
favourably of mine .'' I am sorry for it : I 
hoped to see you make a figure at the bar ; 
and your mother has long set her heart upon it. 
Har. (with energy.) O, no! she must not — 
she shall not be disappointed ! — Pardon me, 
my expressions have gone somewhat wide of 
my meaning. — I meant to have consulted you 
in regard to other difficulties — 

Coi. And pardon me likewise for interrupt- 
ing you ; but it appears to me, that an un- 
learned soldier is not a person to be consulted 
in these matters. 

Har. It was not altogether of these matters 
I meant to speak — But, perhaps, we had 
better put it oft' for the present. 
Col. No, no I 

Har. Perhaps we had better walk out a 
little way : we may talk with less restraint as 
we go. 

Col. No, no, there are a thousand imperti- 
nent people about. Sit down again, and let 
me hear every thing you wish to say. 

Har. (pausing , Levitating, and much embar- 
rassed.) There are certain attachments in 
which a man's heart may be so deeply inter- 
ested — I would say so very — or rather I 
should say so strangely eiigaged, that — {hesi- 
tates and pauses.) 

Col. O, here it is ! I unders;'and it now. 
But piay don't be so foolish about it, Har- 
wood ! You are in love ? 

Har {appearing relieved.) I thank your 
quickness, my dear Colonel ; I fear it is Some- 
what so with me. 

Col. And whence your fear? Not from the 
lady's cruelty ? 

Har. No, there is another bar in my way, 
which does, perhaps too much depress my 
hopes of happiness. 

Col. You have not been piudent enough ta 
fall in love with an heiress .•* 



74 



THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



Har. No, my dear Sir, I have not. 

Col. That is a great mistake, to bo sure, 
Harwooii ; yrt many a man has not advanc- 
ed the loss rapidly in his profession, for hav- 
inif had a portionless wiii' to b£^gin the world 
witli. It is a spur to industry. 

Har. (loohin.if plrnscil at li'nn.) Such senti- 
ments arc what I expected from Colonel Har- 
dy ; and, were it not for female failings, there 
would be little risk in following them — I 
don't know how to express it — I am perhaps 
too delicate in these matters — We ought not 
to expect a faultless woman. 
• Col. No, surely ; and, if such a woman 
were to bo found, she would be no fit compan- 
ion for us. 

Har. (ffcUin:;' lip, and pressing the Colond's 
hand betv>ccii lii.s.) My dearest friend ! your 
liberality and candour delight me ! — 1 do in- 
deed believe that many a man has lived very 
happily with a woman far from being fault- 
less ; and, after all, where is the great injury 
he sustains, if she should be a little violent 
and unreasonable ? 

Cot. (startiiiiT up from his seat.) Nay, 
Heaven defend us from a violent woman ; for 
that is the devil himself I — {Seeing Harwood's 
countenAince change.) — What is the matter 
with you, Harwood.' She is not ill-temper'd, 
I hope ? 

Har. (hesitating.) Not — not absolutely so 
— She is of a very quick and lively disposi- 
tion, and is apt to be too hasty and unguard- 
ed in her emotions. — I do not, perhaps, make 
myself completely understood. 

Col. O .' I understand you perfectly. — I 
have known ladies of this lively disposition, 
very hasty and unguarded too in their de- 
mands upon a man's pocket as well as his 
patience ; but she may be of a prudent and 
economical turn. Is it so. Harwood .' 

Har. (throrring himself into a chair very 
much di>ftrcssed.) I do not say it is. Colonel. 

Col. {putting his hand kindly upon his .shoul- 
der.) I am sorry to distress 3'ou so mucli, my 
dear friend, yet it must be so. I see how it is 
with you : pardon the freedom of friendship, 
but indeed an expensive and violent hMiiper'd 
woman is not to be thought of: he who mar- 
ries such a one forfeits all peace and luqjpi- 
ness. Pluck up some noble courage, and re- 
nounce this unfortunate connexion. 

Har. {starting up.) Renounce it. Colonel 
Hardy ? Is it from you I receive so hard, so 
unfeelinrr a nMpiest.who hassufferod so much 
yourself from the remembrance of ;!ii early at- 
tachment .■' 1 liiought to have been pitied byyou. 

Col- I was early chagrined with the want 
of promotion, and disappointed in my schemes 
of ambition, which gave my countenance 
something of a melancholy cast, I believe, 
and the ladieshave been kind enough to attri- 
bute it to the eU'eets of hopeless love : but 
how could you be such a ninny, my dear Har- 
wood .'' 

Har. I am sorry, Sir, we have linderstood 
one another so jiuperfectly. 



Col. Nay, nay, my young friend, do not 
carry yourself so distantly with me. You 
have sought a love-lorn companion, and you 
liave found a plain-spoken friend. 1 am sorry 
to give you ])ain : deal more openly with me : 
when I know who this bewitching creature 
is, I shall, perhaps, judge more favourably of 
your passion. 

Har. It is Miss Agnes Withrington. 

Col. Cousin to Miss Withrington the heir- 
ess .' 

Har. Yes, it is she. What have I said to 
amaze you .■' 

Col. "You amaze me, indeed ! — That little 
— forgive me if I were almost to say, — plain- 
lookino- girl ! Friendship would sympathize 
in your feelings ; but, pardon me, Harwood, 
you have lost your wits. 

Har. I believe I have, Colonel, which must 
plead my pardon, likewise, for expecting this 
friendship from you. 

Col. You distress me. 

Har. I distress myself still more, by sufFer- 
ino- so long the pain of this conversation. 

Col. Let us end it, then, as soon as you 
please. When you are in a humour to listen 
to reason, I shall be happy to have the hon- 
our of seeing you. 

Har. When I am in that humour. Sir, I 
will not balk it so much as to intrude upon 
your time. 

Col. Let me see you, then, when you are 
not in that humour, and I shall more frequent- 
ly have the pleasure of your company. {Both 
bow coldly. Exit Colonel Hardy.) 

Har. {alone.) What a fool was I to send for 
this man ! — A little plain-looking girl ! What 
do the people mean ? They will drive me mad 
amongst them. Why does not the little witch 
wear high heels to her shoes, and stick a plume 
of feathers in hercap ? Oh ! they will drive me 
distracted ! Exit. 

Scene IL — mr. withrington's house, 
agnes discovered embroidering at 
a. small table, harwood standing 
by her, and hanging fondly over 
her as she works. 

Har. How pretty it is ! Now you put a lit- 
tle ])urple on the side of the flower. 

.■7i.''. Yes, a very little shade. 

Har. And now a little brown upon that. 

.Ig. Even so. 

liar. And thus you work up and down, 
with that tiny needle of yours, till the whole 
flower is completed. (Pauses, still looking at 
her troi-hing.) Why, Agnes, you little witch ! 
you're doing that leaf wrong. 

.'1g. You may pick it out then, and do it 
better for me. I'am sure you have been idle 
enough all the morning, it is time you were 
employed about something. 

Har. And so I will, {silting dozen by her, 
and taking hold of the icork ) 



THE TRYAL . A'COMEDY. 



75 



Jig. {covering the flower with her hand.) O • 
no. no! 

Har. Take away that little perverse hand, 
and let me begin. {Putting his hand upon 
hers.) 

Ag. What a good for nothing creature you 
are I you can do nothing yourself, and you 
will suffer nobody else to do any thing. I 
should have had the whole pattern finished 
before now, if you had not loitered over ray 
chair so long. 

Har. So you can't work when I look over 
you I Then I have some influence upon you .' 

you sly girl ! you are caught in your own 
words at last. 

Ag. Indeed. Harwood, I wish you would 
go home again to your law-books and your 
precedent hunting ; you have mispent a great 
deal of time here already. 

Har. Is it not better to be with you in re- 
ality than only in imagination .-' Ah ! Agnes ! 
you little know what my home studies are. — 
Law, said you ! how can I think of law, 
when your countenance looks upon me from j 
every "black lettered page that I turn .'' when 
your figure fills the empty seat by my side, 
and your voice speaks to me in the very mid- 
day stillness of my chamber .' Ah ! my Ag- 
nes ! you will not believe what a foolish fel- 
low I have been, since I first saw you. 

Jig. Nay, Harwood, I am not at all incredu- 
lous of the fact ; it is only the cause of it v/hich 

1 doubt. 

Har. Saucy girl I I must surely be reveng- 
ed upon you for all this. 

Jig. I am tired of this work. {Getting up.) 

Har. O I do not give over. — Let me do 
something for you — Let me thread your nee- 
dle for you I can thread one most nobly. 

Jig. There then. {Gives him a needle and 
silk.) 

Har. {pretending to scratch her hand with it.) 
So ought you to be punished. {Threads it 
awkwafdhj.) 

A'r. A\-*, nobly done, indeed ! but I shall 
work no more to-day. 

Har. You must work up my needleful. 

Ag. I am to work a fool's cap in the cor- 
ner by-and-by ; I shall keep your needleful 
for that. I am going to wallc in the garden. 

Har. And so am I. 

As. You are .•" 

Har. Yes, I am. Go where you will, Ag- 
nes, to the garden or the field, the city or the 
desert, by sea or by land, I must e'en go 
to). I will never be where you are not, 
but when to be where you are is impossi- 
ble. 

Ag. There will be no getting rid of you at 
this rate, unless some witch will have pity 
upon me, and carry me up in the air upon 
her broomstick. 

Har. There. I will not pretend to follow 
you ; but as long as you remain upon the 
eartli, Agnes, I cannot find in my heart to 
budge an inch from your side. 

Ag. You are a mcuiman I 



Har. You are a sorceress ! 

Ag. You are an idler ! 

Har. You are a little mouse ! 

Ag. Come, come, get your hat then, and 
let us go. (Aside, while he goes to the bottom 
of the stage for his Imt.) Bless me ! 1 have 
forgot to be ill-humour'd all this time. 

[Exit, hastily. 

Har. {coming forward.) Gone for her cloak, 
I suppose. How delightful she is ! how 
pleasant every change of her countenance ! 
How happy must his life be, spent even in 
cares and toil, whose leisure hours are cheer- 
ed with such a creature as this. 

Ag. {without in an angry voice.) Don't tell 
me so ; I know very well how it is, and you 
shall smart for it too, you lazy, careless, im- 
pudent fellow ! And, besides all this, how 
dare you use my kitten so .■' 

Har. {who listened xoith a rueful face.) 
Well, now, but this is humanity : she will 
not have a creature ill-used. — I wish she 
would speak more gently though. 

Ag. {entering.) Troublesome, provoking, 
careless fellow ! 

Har. It is very provoking in him to use the 
poor kitten ill. 

Ag. So it is ; but it is more provoking still 
to mislay my clogs, as he does. 

Enter Servant with clogs. 

Ser. Here they are. Madam. 

Ag. Bring them here I say ; {looks at them .) 
These are Miss Withrington's clogs, you 
blockhead I {Throws '.hem to the other side of 
the stage in a passion.) I must go without 
them, I find. {To Harwood.) What are you 
musing about .' If you don't choose to go with 
me, good morning. 

Har. {sighing deeply.) Ah, Agnes ! you 
know too well that I cannot stay behind you. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IIL — miss withrington's dres- 
sing-room. 

Enter Mariane, who turns back again towards 
the door, and calls to Agnes without. 

Mar. Agnes, cousin Agnes I where are you 
going .^ 

Ag. {without.) I am returning to Miss Es- 
ton, whom I have left in the parloar, talking 
to the dog. 

Mar. Well, let her talk to the dog a little 
longer, and let me talk to you. 

Enter Agnes. 
I have set Betty to watch at the higher win- 
dows to give notice of Sir Loftus's approach, 
that we may put ourselves in order to receive 
him ; for I am resolved to have one bout 
more with him. and discharge him for good : 
I am quite tired of him now. 

Ag. Do you expect him .-■ 

Mar. 1 am pretty sure he t*111 come about 
this time, and I must be prepared for him. I 
have a good mind to tell him at once, I des- 



76 



THE TRYAL: A COMEDY. 



pise him, and that will be a plain easy way 
of finishing the business. 

Ag. No, no, my sweet Mariane I we must 
send him off with eclat. You have played 
your part very well hitherto; keep it up but 
for the last time, and let Miss Eston and I go 
into the closet and enjoy it. 

Mar. Well then, do so : I shall please you 
for this once. 

Enter Betty in haste. 

Bet. (to Mar.) Sir Loftus is just coming 
up the side path. Madam, and he'll be at the 
door immediately. 

Ag. I'll run and bring Eston directly. 

[Exit. 

Mar. (looking at the door of the closet.) Yes, 
it is very thin : they will hear well, and see 
through the key-hole. 

Re-enter Agnes with Miss Eston, in a great 
hurry. 

Est. La ! I have torn my gown in my haste" 

Jig. Come along, come along I 

Est. It is not so bad a tear though as Mrs. 
Thomson got the — 

Jig. Come, come, we must not stay here. 
(Pushes Eston into the closet, and follows. 
Mariane and Belty place a table with books 
and a chair, near the front of the stage.) 

Est. (looking from the closet.) La ! Mari- 
ane, how 1 long to hear you and him begin. 
I shall be so delighted ! 

Mar. For heaven's sake shut the door ! he 
will be here immediately. (Shuts the door 
upon her, and continues to put the room in 
order.) 

Est. (looking out again.) La ! Mariane, do 
you know how many yards of point Lady 
Squat has got round her new — (Agnes from 
behind, claps her hand 07i,Eston's mouth, and 
draws her into the closet. — Mariane sets her- 
self by the table, pretending to read. Exit 
Betty, andenter SichoFTVs,, aservant announc- 
ing him.) 

air Loft. You are very studious this morn- 
ing, Miss Withrington. 

Mar. (carelessly.) Ha! how do you do .'' 

Sir Loft. You have been well amus'd, I 
hope .' 

Mar. So, so. I must put in a mark here, 
and not lose my place. (Looking on the table.) 
There is no paper — O, there is some on the 
other table : pray do fetch it me ! (Pointing 
to a table at the bottom of the stage.) I am 
very lazy. (Sits doivn again indolently.) 

Sir Loft, (fetching the paper, and presenting 
it with a condescending yet self-im/jortaut air.) 
I have the honour to obey you, Ma'ain. 

Mar. I thank you ; you are a very service- 
able creature, I am sure. 

Sir Loft, (drawing himself up proudly but 
immcdiuLci y correcting himself.) 1 am always 
happy to serve Miss Withrington. 

Mar. O ! I know very well the obliging 
turn of your disposition. (Tosses her arm 
upon the table and throws down her book.) I am 



very stupid this morning. (Sir Loltus piclis 
up the book, and gives it to her rather sulkily ; 
and she in receiving it drops an ivory ball un- 
der the table.) Bless me I what is the mat- 
ter with all these things ? pray lift it for me, 
good Sir Loftus ! I believe you must creep 
under the table for it, though. (He stoops un- 
der the table icitk a ver^j bad grace, and she 
slyly gives it a touch with her foot, which makes 
it run to the other side of the stage.) Nay, 
you must go farther oft' for it now. I am 
very troublesome. 

Sir Loft, (goes after it rather unwillingly, 
and presenting it to her 7oith still a worse 
grace.) Madam this is more honour than I — 
(mumbling.) 

Mar. O, no ! Sir Loftus, it is only you that 
are too good. (Lolling carelessly in her chair.) 
It is so comfortable to have such a good crea- 
ture by one ! your fine fashionable men are 
admired to be sure, but I don't know how, I 
feel always restrained in their company. 
With a good obliging creature like you now, 
I can be quite at my ease ; I can just desire 
you to do any thing. 

Sir Loft. Upon my honour, Madam, you 
flatter me very much indeed. Upon my 
honour, 1 must say, I am rather at a loss to 
conceive how I have merited these commen- 
dations. 

Mar. O ! Sir Loftus, you are too humble, 
too diffident of yourself. I know very well 
the obliging turn of your disposition to every 
body. 

Sir Loft, (aside.) Damn it ! is she an idiot ! 
(aloud.) Your good opinion, Madam, does me 
a great deal of honour, but I assure you, 
Ma'am, it is more than I deserve. I have 
great pleasure in serving Miss Withrington ; 
— to be at the service of every body is an 
extent of benevolence I by no means pretend 
to. 

Mar. Now why are you so diffident, Sir 
Loftus.^ did not old Mrs. MumbleCTike tell 
me the other day, how you ran niae times to 
the apothecary's to fetch green salve to rub 
her monkey's tail ? 

Sir Loft. She told you a damned lie then ! 
(Biting his lip, a nd walking up and down with 
hasty strides) Damn it ! this is beyond all 
bearing! I run nine times to the apothecary's 
to fetch green salve for her monkey's tail ! If 
the cursed hag says so again I'll bury her 
alive ! 

Mar. Nay, don't be angry about it. I'm sure 
I thought it very good in you, and I said so 
to every body. 

Sir Loft. You have been obliging enough to 
tell it to all the world too ? 

Mar. And why should I not have the pleas- 
ure of praising you.' 

Sir Loft. Hell and the devil! (Turning on 
his heel, and striding up and dotcn, and mut- 
tering as he goes whilst she sits carelessly icith 
her arms crossed.) 

Mar. My good Sir Loftus, you will tire 
yourself. Had you not better be seated .' 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



n 



Sir Loft, (endeavottring- to composehimself.) 
The influence you have over me, Ma'am, 
gets the better of every thing. I would not 
have you mistake my character, however ; if 
love engages me in your service, you ought 
so to receive it. I have been less profuse of 
these attentions to women of the very first 
rank and fashion; I might therefore have 
hoped that you would lend a more favourable 
ear to my passion. 

Mar. Indeed you wrong me. You don't 
know how favourably my ear may be dis- 
posed : sit down here and tell me all about it. 
(Sir Loftus revolts again at her familiarity , 
but stifles his pride and sits down by her.) 

Sir Loft. Permit me to say. Madam, that it 
is time we should come to an explanation of 
each other's sentiments. 

Mar. Whenever you please, Sir. 

Sir Loft, (boicing.) I hope then, I may be 
allowed to presume, that my particular atten- 
tions to you, pardon me, Ma'am, have not 
been altogether disagreeable to you. 

Mar. O ! not at all. Sir Loflus. 

Sir Loft, {bowing again.) I will presume 
then still farther, Ma'am, and declare to you, 
•that from the very da.y which gave birth to 
my passion, I have not ceased to think of you 
with the most ardent tenderness. 

Mar. La ! Sir Loftus, was it not of a Wed- 
nesday ? 

Sir Loft, (fretted.) Upon my word I am not 
so very accurate : it might be Wednesday, or 
Friday, or any day. 

Mar. Of a Friday, do you think.' it runs 
strangely in my head that we saw one another 
first of a Wednesday. 

Sir Loft, {very much fretted.) I say. Ma'am, 
the day which gave birth to my love — 

Mar. O ! very true ! you might see me first 
of a Wednesday, and yet not fall in love with 
me till the Friday. (Sir Loftus starts up in a 
passion, and strides up and down. — Mariane 
■rising from her seat carelessly.) I wonder 
v/here Wilham has put the nuts I bought for 
Miss Eston's squirrel. I think I hear a mouse 
in the wainscot. {Goes to the bottom of the 
room, and opens a small cabinet, whiht Sir 
Loftus comes forward to the front.) 

Sir Loft, {aside.) Damn her freaks ! I wish 
the devil had the wooing of her ! (Pauses.) 
I must not lose her for a trifle though ; but 
when she is once secured, I'll be revenged ! 
I'll vex her! I'lldrive the spirit out of her! 
{Moud as she comes forward.) My passion for 
you, Miss Withrington, is too generous and 
-disinterested to merit this indifii'erence. 

Mar. I'm glad they have not eat the nuts 
though. 

Sir Loft, (aside.) Curse her and her nuts ! 
I'll tame her ! (aloud.) My sentiments for 
you, Ma'am, are of so delicate and tender a 
nature, they do indeed deserve your indul- 
gence. Tell me then, can the most disinter- 
ested, the most fervent love, make any im- 
pression on your heart.' I can no longer 
exist in this state of anxiety ! at your feet let 



me implore you — (Seems abovt to kneel, but 
rather unwillingly, as if he icished to be pre- 
vented. ) 

Mar. Pray, Sir Loflus, don't kneel there ! 
my maid has spilt oil on the floor. 

Sir Loft. Since you Nvill not permit me to 
have the pleasure of kneeling at — 

Mar. Nay, I will not deprive you of the 
pleasure — There is no oil spilt here. (Point' 
in g to u part of the floor very near the closet- 
door.) 

Sir Loft. I see it would be disagreeable to 
you. 

Mar. I see very well you are not inclined 
to condescend so far. 

Sir Loft, (kneeling directly.) Believe me, 
Madam, the pride, the pleasure of my life, is 
to be devoted to the most adorable — (Mari- 
ane gives a significant cough, and Agnes and 
Eston hirst from tlie closet : the door opening 
on the outside, comes against Sir Loftus as he 
kneels, and lays him sprawling on the floor.) 

Ag. Est. and Mar. (speaking together.) 
O Sir Loftus ! poor Sir Loftus ! (All coming 
about him pretending to assist him to get xip.) 

Sir Loft. Damn their bawling ! they will 
bring the whole family here ! 

Enter Mr. Withri\gton and Opal : Sir Lof- 
tus, mad with rage, makes a desperate effort, 
and gets upon his legs. Opal stands laughing at 
him without any ceremony, whilst he bites his 
lips, and draws himself up haughtily. 

Mar. (to Sir Loft.) I'm afraid you have 
hurt yourself.' 

Sir Loft, (shortly.) No, Ma'am. 

J}g. Hav'nt you rubbed the skin off" your 
shins. Sir Loftus .' 

Sir Loft. No, Ma'am. 

Ag. I am sure he has hurt his nose, but he 
is ashamed to own it. 

Sir Loft. Neither shin nor nose ! Devil 
take it ! 

With. Get along, girls, and don't torment 
this poor man any longer. I am afraid. Sir 
Loftus, tire young gipsies have been making 
a fool of you. 

Sir Loft. Sir, it is neither in your power 
nor theirs to make a fool of me. 

Op. Ha. ha, ha, ha ! 'Faith Prettyman, you 
must forgive me ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! I never 
thought in my life to have caught you at such 
low prostrations. But don't be so angry, 
though you do make a confounded silly figure, 
it must be confessed. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir Loft, (to Op.) Sir, your impertinence 
and yourself are equally contemptible ; and I 
desire you would no longer take the trouble 
of intruding yourself into my company, nor 
of aff'ronting me, as you have hitherto done, 
with your awkward imitation of my fio-ure 
and address. 

Op. What the devil do you mean .' I imi- 
tate your figure and address ! I scorn to — I 
will not deny that I may have insensibly ac- 
quired a little of them both, for — for — (Hcsi- 
tating.) 



78 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



J}g. For he has observed people laughing 
at him of late. 

Sir. Loft, {turning on his heel.) He is be- 
neath iny resentrnenl. 

Mar. Be not so angry, good Sir Loftus ! 
let us end this business for the present ; and 
wlicn I am at leisure to hear the remainder 
of your declarations, which have been so un- 
fortunately interrupted, I'll send and let you 
know. 

Sir Loft. No, 'Faith Madam ! you have 
heard the last words I shall ever say to you 
upon the subject. A large fortune may make 
amends for an ordinary person, Madam, but 
not for vulgarity and impertinence. Good 
morning ! (Breaks from them,, and Exit, 
leaving them laughing provokingly behind 
him.) 

With, {shaking his head.) This is too bad, 
this is too bad, young ladies ! I am ashamed 
to have all this rioting and absurdity going 
on in my house. 

Jig. Come away, uncle, and see him go 
down the back walk, from the parlour win- 
dows. I'll warrant you lie'll stride it away 
most nobly. (VVithrington/o//o?o- shrugging 
up his shoulders.) [Exeunt. 



ACT V, 



Scene I. — mr. withrington's libra- 
ry. MR. WITHRINOTON DISCOVERED 
SEATED BY A TABLE. 

With. Who waits there .'' fjEn^o- Servant .J 
Tell iViiss Agnes Withrington I wish to see 
her. [Exit Servant.] What an absurd fellow 
this Harwood is, to be so completely bewitch- 
ed vv^ith such a girl as Agnes ! If she were 
like the women 1 remember, there would in- 
deed be some — (Agnes entering softhj he- 
hind him, gives him a tap on the shoulder.) 

Ag. Well, uncle, what are you grumbling 
about.'' Have you lost your wager.' Har- 
wood has just left you, I hear. 

With. I believe you may buy those trink- 
um trankum ornaments for Mariana when- 
ever you please. 

.Bg. Pray look not so ungraciously upon 
the matter ! But you can't forgive him, I 
suppose, for being such a ninny as to fall in 
love with a little ordinary girl, eh .' 

With. And so he is a ninny, and a fool, and 
a very silly fellow. 

Ag. Do tell me what he has been sayinf to 
you. 

With. Why, he confesses thou art ill-tem- 
pered, that thou art freakish, that thou art 
extravagant ; and that of all the friends he 
has spoken with upon the subject, there is 
not one who will allow thee beauty enough 
to make a good-looking dairy-maid. 

.%. Did he say so .' 

With. Why, something nearly equivalent 



to it, Agnes. Yet, notwithstanding all this, 
there is something about thee, so unaccoir;',- 
ably delightful to him, that, poor as thou art, 
he will give up the fair hopes of opulence, and 
the pleasures of freedom, to watch for thee, 
bear with thee, drudge for thee, if thou wilt 
have the condescension, in return, to plague 
and torment him for life. 

Jig. Foolish enough indeed ! yet Heaven 
bless him for it ! What a fortunate woman 
am I I I sought a disinterested lover, and 1 
have found a most wonderful one. 

With. I dare say you think yourself very 
fortunate. 

Jig. And don't you, likewise, my jfood Sir ? 
but you seem displeased at it. 

With. You guess rightly enough : I must 
speak without disguise, Agnes ; I am not 
pleased. 

Jig. Ah ! his want of fortune — 

With. Poo ! you know very well I despise 
all mercenary balancing of property. It is 
not that which disturbs me. To be the dis- 
interested choice of a worthy man is what 
every woman, who means to marry at all, 
would be ambitious of; and a point in regard 
to her marriage, which a woman of fortune 
would be unwilling to leave doubtful. But 
there are men whose passions are of such a 
violent overbearing nature, that love in them 
may be considered as a disease of the mind ; 
and the object of it claims no more perfection 
or pre-eminence amongst women, than chalk, 
lime, or oatmeal do amongst dainties, because 
some diseased stomachs do prefer them to all 
things. Such men as these we sometimes 
see attach themselves even to ugliness and 
infamy, in defiance of honour and decency. 
With such men as these, women of sense and 
refinement can never be happy ; nay, to 
be willingly the object of their love is dis- 
respectable. {Pauses.) But you don't care 
for all this, I suppose ? It does well enough 
for an old uncle to perplex himself with these 
niceties : it is you yourself the dear man hap- 
pens to love, and none of those naughty wo- 
men I have been talking of, so all is very 
right. (Pauses, and she seems thoughtful.) 

Jig. {assuming a grave and more dignified 
air.) No, Sir, you injure me : prove that his 
love for me is stronger than his love of virtue, 
and I will — 

With. What will j'ou do, Agnes.' 

Jig. I will give him up forever. 

With. Ay, tliere spoke a brave girl ! you 
deserve the best husband in Christendom for 
this. 

dg. Nay, if Harwood endures not the test, 
I will indeed renounce him, but no other 
man shall ever fill his place. 

With. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. 
(Walks vp and dou-n. Slie is thoughtful.) You 
are very thoughtful, Agnes ! I fear I have 
distressed you. 

Jig. You have distressed me, yet I thank 
}'ou for it. I have been too presumptuous, I 
have ventured farther than I ouffht. Since it 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



79 



is so, I will not shrink from tlie trial. (Paus- 
es.) Don't you think he will go through it 
honourably ? 

With, (shaking his head.) Indeed I know 
not — I hope he will. 

Jig. You hope ? I thank you for that word, 
my dear Sir ! I hope he will too. (She re- 
mains tkoughtfvl : he takes a turn or two across 
the stage.) 

With, (clapping her shoulder affectionately.) 
What are you thinking of, niece ? 

Ag. How to set about this business. 

With. And how will you do it .'' 

Jig. I will write a letter to Lady Fade, 
asking pardon for having told some malicious 
falsehoods of her, to a relation on whom she 
is dependent ; begging she will make up the 
matter, and forgive me, promising at the same 
time, most humbly, if she will not expose me 
for this time, never to offend so any more. 
Next time he comes, I will make him direct 
the letter himself, that when it falls into his 
hands again, he may have no doubt of its au- 
thenticity. Will tliis do .' 

With. Yes, very well. If he loves you after 
this, his love is not worth tlie having. 

Jig. Ah, uncle ! You are very hard-heart- 
ed ! But you are very right : I know you are 
very right. Pray docs not Royston lodge in 
the same house witli Harwood .' 

With. He does. 

Jig. I wish, by his means, we could con- 
ceal ourselves somewhere in his apartments, 
where we might see Harwood have the letter 
put into his hands, and observe his behaviour. 
I don't know any body else who can do this 
for us : do you think you could put him into 
good humour again .' 

With. I rather think I can, for he hath still 
a favour to ask of me. 

Ag. We miist give him a part to act ; do 
you think he can do it .' 

With. He is a very blundering fellow, but 
he will be so flattered with being let into the 
secret, that I know he will do his best. 

Enter Mariane. 

Mar. What have you been about so long 
together .'' 

With. Hatching a new plot; and wo set 
about it directly too. 

Mar. I am very sure the plot is of your 
own hatching, then ; for I never saw Agnes 
with any thing of this kind in her head, wear 
such a grave spiritless face upon it before. 

With. You are mistaken, Ma'am, it is of 
her own contrivance ; but you shall know 
nothing about it. And I give you warning 
that this shall be the last of them : if you have 
got any more poor devils on your hands to 
torment, do it quickly ; for I will have an end 
put to all this foolery. 

Mar. Very well, uncle ; I have just been 
following your advice. I have discarded Sir 
Ulock O' Grady, and I have only now poor 
Opal to reward for his services. I have got 
a promise of marriage from him, in which he 



forfeits ten thousand pounds if he draws back. 
I shall torment him with this a little. It was 
an extraordinary thing to be sure for an heir- 
ess to demand : but I told him it was the fash- 
ion ; and now that he has bound himself so 
securely, he is quite at heart's ease, and thinks 
every thing snug and well settled. 

Enter Roys ton, a Servant announcing him. 

With. Your servant, Mr. Royston, I am 
very glad to see you. Don't start at seeing 
the ladies with me ; I know my niece, Mari- 
ane, and you have had a little misunderstand- 
ing, but when I have explained the matter to 
you, you will be friends with her again, and 
laugh at it yourself. 

Hoy. (coldly.) I have the honour to wish 
the ladies good morning. 

With. Nay, cousin, you don't understand 
how it is : these girls have been playing tricks 
upon every man they have met with since 
they came here ; and when that wild creature 
(-pointing to Mariane,) was only laughing at 
the cheat she had passed upon them ail, which 
I shall explain to you presently, ynu thought 
she was laughing at you. Shake hands, and 
be friends with her, cousin ; nobody minds 
what a foolish girl does. 

Roy. (his face brightening up.) O ! for that 
matter, I mind these things as little as any 
body, cousin Withrington. I have too many 
affairs of importance on my hands, to attend 
to such little matters as these. I am glad the 
young lady had a hearty laugh with all my 
soul ; and 1 shall be happy to see her as merry 
again whenever she has a mind to it. I mind 
it ! no, no, no ! 

Mar. I thank you. Sir ; and I hope we shall 
be merry again, when you shall have your 
own share of the joke. 

Roy. Yes, yes, we shall be very merry. 
By the bye, Withrington, I came here to tell 
you, that I have got my business with the 
duke put into so good a train, that it can 
hardly misgive. 

With. I am happy to hear it. 

Roy. You must know I have set very art- 
fully about it, cousin ; but I dare say you 
would guess as much, he, he, he I You knew 
me of old, eh! I have got Mr. Cullyfool to 
ask it for me on his own account ; I have 
bribed an old house-keeper, who is to inter- 
est a great lady in my favour ; 1 have called 
eleven times on his grace's haif-cousin, till 
she has fairly promised to write to the dutch- 
ess upon the business ; I have v.-ritten to the 
steward, and promised his son all ray interest 
at next election, if he has any mind to stand 
for our borough, you know ; and I have ap- 
plied by a friend — no, no, he has applied 
through the medium of another friend ; or 
rather, I believe, by that friend's wife, or 
aunt, or sonae way or other, I don't exactl}' 
remember, but it is a very good channel, I 
know. 

With. O '. I make no doubt of it. 

Roy. Nay, my landlady has engaged her 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



apothecary's wife to speak to his grace's 
physician about it; and a medical man, you 
know, sometimes asks a favour with great 
advantage, when a patient beheves that his 
hie is inliis hands. Tlie dulie has got a most 
furious fit of ^Jie gout, and it has been in his 
stomach too, ha, iia, ha, ha ! — If we can't 
succeed without it, I have a friend who will 
offer a round sum for me, at last; but I hope 
this will not be necessary. Pray, do you 
know of any other good channel to solicit by ? 
IFuh. 'Faith, Royston ! you have found out 
too many roads to one place already ; I fear 
you'll lose your way aniungst them all. 

Roy. Nay, nay, cousin, 1 won't be put off 
so. 1 have been told this morning you are 
acquainted with Sucksop, the duke's greatest 
friend and adviser. Come, come ! you must 
use your interest for me. 

With. Well, then, come in the other room, 
and we shall speak about it. I have a favour 
to ask of you too. 

ttoij. My dear Sir, any favour in my power 
you may absolutely command at all times. 
I'll follow 3^ou, cousin. (Goes to the door 
10! th Witlirington Mii^A ^r«i/ alacrity, but rec- 
ollecting that he has forgotten to pay his com- 
plimrnts to the ladies, hurries back again, and, 
after making several very ■profound bows to 
them, follows Withrington into another roorn.) 

Mar. (imitating him.) Ha, lia, ha. ha ! 

Jig. Softly, Mariane ; let us leave this 
room, if you must laugh, for he will overhear 

you. [EXE0NT. 

Scene II. — royston's lodsings. 

Enter Royston, conducting in Agnes, Maki- 
ANE, and Withrington. 

Roy. Now, pray compose yourselves, young 
ladies, and sit down a little. I'll manage 
every thing : don't give yourself any trou- 
ble ; I'll set the whole plot a-going. 

lyith. We depend entirely upon you, cousin 
Royston. 

Roy. I know you do ; many a one depends 
upon me, cousin Withrington. I'll shev.' you 
how I'll manage it. Jonathan, come here, 
Jonathan 1 (Enter Jonatlian.) Bring me that 
screen from the otiicr room. (Exit Jonathan.) 
We'll place it here, if 3'ou please, cousin, and 
then you and the ladies can stand as snugly 
behind it, as kings and queens in a puppet- 
show, till your time comes to appear. (Enter 
Jonathan with .icrccji.) Come hither with it, 
Jonatlian: place it here. (Pointing.) No, no, 
jolter-head, nearer tlie wall with it. (Going 
behind it, and coming out again.) It will do 
better a little more this side, for then it will 
bo farther from the window. 

^Ig. O ! it will do very well, Sir ; you take 
too much trouble. 

Roy. Trouble, my dear Ma'am! If it were 
a hundred times more trouble, I should be 
happy to serve you. I don't mind trouble, 
if I can get the thing done cleverly and com- 
pletely. That's my way of doing things. 



No, it don't stand to please me yet ; it is too 
near the door now, and the ladies may catch 
cold, perhaps. 

Ag. (rery uneasy.) Indeed it stands very 
well ' Ilarwood will be here before we are 
ready. 

Roy. (to Jon.) Blockhead that thou art ! 
canst thou not set it up even .'' Now, that will 
do. (Getting behind it.) This will do. 
(Coming out again.) Yes, this will do to a 
nicety. 

Mar. (aside.) Heaven be praised, this grand 
matter is settled at last ! 

Roy. Now he'll think it odd, perhaps, that 
I have a screen in my room ; but I have a 
trick for that, ladies; I'll tell him I mean to 
purchase lands in Canada, and have been 
looking over the map of America. (Agnes 
looks to Withrington very uneasy.) 

With. Don't do that, Royston, for then he 
will examine the screen. 

Roy. Or, I may say, there is a chink in the 
waD, and I placed it to keep out the air. 

Jig. No, no, that won't do. For Heaven's 
sake. Sir ! 

Roy. Then I shall just say, I like to have a 
screen in my room, for I am used to it at 
home. 

Mar. Bless me, Mr. Royston ! can't you 
just leave it alone, and.he'll take no notice of 
it. 

Roy. O ! if he takes no notice of it, that is 
a different thing, Miss Withrington : but 
don't be uneasy. 111 manage it all; I'll con- 
duct the whole business. 

Jig. (aside to Withrington.) O ! my good 
Sir ! this fool will ruin every thing. 

With. Be quiet, Agnes, we are in for it now. 
Roy. Let me remember my lesson too. 
Here is the letter for him, with the seal as 
nuturally broken, as if the lady had done it 
herself, ilarwood will wonder, now, how I 
came to know about all this. "Faith ! I be- 
lieve, he thinks me a strange, diving, pene- 
trating kind of a genius, alread}^, and he is 
not far wrong, perhaps. You know me, cous- 
in Withrington : ha, ha, ha, ha ! You know me. 
Jig. O ! I wish it were over, and we were 
out of this house again ! 

Roy. Don't be uneasy, Ma'am, I'll manage 
every thing. — Jonatlian ! Jonathan, (Enter) 
don't you go and tell Mr. Harwood that I 
have got company here. 

Jon. No, no, your honour, I knows better 
than that ; for the ladies are to be behind the 
screen. Sir, and he must know nothing of the 
matter, to be sure. I'ficken I it will be rare- 
sport ! 

Jig. (starting.) I hear a knock at the door. 
Roy. It is him, I dare say ; run, Jonathan. 
[Exit Jomithan. 
Jig. Come, come, let us hide ourselves. 
(Jill get behind the screen i«f Royston.) 
' Roy. Ay, ay, it will do very well. (Look- 
ing at the screen.) 

Jig. (behind.) Mariane, don't breathe so 
loud. 



THE TRYALi A COMEDY. 



81 



Mar. {behind.) I don't breathe loud. 

^g. (behind.) Do, uncle, draw in the edge 
of your coat. 

IVith. (behind.) Poo, silly girl ! they can't 
see a bit of it. 

Enter Colonel Hardy and Harwood. 

Roy. Ha I your servant, my dear Colonel. 
How goes it, Harwood ? I bade my man tell 
you I was alone, and very much disposed for 
your good company ; but I am doubly fortu- 
nate. (Botcing to the Colonel.) 

Col. Indeed, Royston, I have been pretty 
much with him these two days past, and I 
don't believe he gives me great thanks for my 
company. I am like an old horse running 
after a colt ; the young devil never fails to 
turn now and then, and give him a kick for 
his pains. 

Har. Nay, my good friend, I must be an 
ass's colt then, I am sure, I mean it not ; but 
I am not happy, and fear I have been peevish 
with you. 

Roij. (attempting to look archly.) Peevish, 
and all that ! perhaps the young man is in 
love. Colonel .' 

Col. No more, if you please, Royston : we 
are to speak of this no more. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jon. Did your honour call ' 

Rt)y. No, sirrah. (Jonathan goes, as if he 
were looking for something , and takes a sly 
peep behind the screen, to see if they are all 
there.) What are you peeping there for .'' get 
along, you hound ! Does he want to make 
people believe I keep rary-shows behind the 
wainscot.' (Exit Jonathan.) But as I was a 
saying, Colonel, perhaps the young man is in 
love. He, he, he ! 

Col. No, no, let us have no more of it. 

Roy. But 'faith, I know that he is so I and 
I know the lady too. She is a cousin of my 
own, and I am as well acquainted with her 
as I am with my own dog. — But you don't 
ask me what kind of a girl she is. (To the 
Colonel.) 

Col. Give over now, Royston ; she is a very 
good girl, I dare say. 

Ruy. Well, you may think so, but — (Mak- 
ing significant faces.) But — I should not say 
all I know of my own cousin, to be sure, but — 

liar. What are all those cursed grimaces 
for .' Her faults are plain and open as her 
perfections : these she disdains to conceal, and 
the others it is impossible. 

Roy. Softly, Harwood; don't be in a pas- 
sion, unless you would imitate your mistress; 
for she lias not the gentlest temper in the 
Vi^orld. 

Har. Well, well, 1 love her the better for 
it. 1 can't bear your insipid passionless wo- 
men ; I would as soon live upon sweet curd 
all my life, as attach myself to one of them. 

Roy. She is very extravagant. 

Har. Heaven bless the good folks ! would 
they have a man to give up the woman of 
10 



his heart, because she Ukes a bit of lace upon 
her petticoat .'' 

Roy. Well, but she is — 

CoL. Devil take you, Royston ! can't you 
hold your tongue about her .'' you see he can't 
bear it. 

Rolf, (making signs to the Colonel.) Let 
me aione ; I know when to speak, and when 
to hold my tongue, as well as another. In- 
deed, Harwood, I am your friend ; and though 
the lady is my relation, I must say, I wish 
you had made a better choice. I have dis- 
covered something in regard to her this morn- 
ing, which shews her to be a very improper 
one. I cannot say, however, that I have dis- 
covered any thing which surprised me ; I 
know her too well. 

Har. (vehemently.) You are imposed upon 
by some damn'd falsehood. 

Roy. But I have proof of what I say ; the 
lady who is injured by her gave me this let- 
ter to shew to Mr. Wiihrington. (Taking out 
the letter.) 

Har. It is some fiend who wants to under- 
mine her, and has forged that scrawl to serve 
her spiteful purpose. 

Roy. I should be glad it were so, my dear 
friend ; but Lady Fade is a woman, whose 
veracity has never been suspected. 

Har. Is it from Lady Fade ? Give it me ' 
(Snatching the letter.) 

Roy. It is Agnes's hand, is it not.' 

Har. It is, at least, a good imitation of it. 

Roy. Read the contents, pray ! 

Har! "Madam, what I have said to the 
prejudice of your ladyship's character to your 
relation, Mr. Worthy, I am heartily sorry 
for ; and I am ready to beg pardon on my 
knees, if you desire it ; to acknowledge be- 
fore Mr. Worthy himself, that it is a falsehood, 
or make any other reparation, in a private 
way, that you may desire. Let me, then, 
conjure your ladyship not to expose me, and 
I shall ever remain your most penitent and 
grateful A. Withriiigton." 

Roy. The lady would not be so easily paci- 
fied, though ; for she blackened her charac- 
ter, in order to make her best friend upon 
earth quarrel with her : so she gave me the 
letter to sliew to her uncle. Is it forged, think 
you ? * 

Har. It is possible — I will venture to say 
— Nay, 1 am sure it is ! 

Roy. If it is, there is one circumstance 
which may help to discover the author ; it is 
directed b}^ a different hand on the back. 
Look at it. 

Har. (In great perturbation.) Is it? (Turns 
hastily the folds of the letter, but his hand trem- 
bles so much he can't find the hack.) 

Col. My dear Harwood I this is the back of 
the letter, and methinks the writing is some- 
what like your own. (Harwood looks at it; 
then staggering back, thratcs himself into a 
chair, which happens to be behind him, and 
covers his upper Jace loith his hand.) 

Col. My dear Harwood ! 



82 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



Roij. See how his lips quiver, and his bosom 
heaves ! Let us unbutton him ; I fear he is go- 
inrr into a fit. (Agnes comes from behind the 
screen in a fright, and Withrington />m/^s her 
in again.) 

Col. {loith great tenderness.) My dear Har- 
wood ! 

Har. {with a broken voice.) I'll go to my 
own chamber. {Gets up hastily from his chair, 
and then falls bad- again in a faint.) 
Col. He has fainted. 

Roy. Help, help, here ! {Running about.) 
Who has got hartshorn, or lavender, or wa- 
ter.' help here ! {They all come from behind 
the screen. Agnes runs to Harwood, and 
sprinkles him over jcith lavender, rubbing his 
temples, ^c. lohilst Colonel ]laxAy stares at them 
all in amazement.) 

Jig. Alas ! we have carried this too far ! 
Harwood ! my dear Harwood ! 
Col. {to Roy.) What is all this .' 
Roy. I thought we should amaze you. I 
knew I should manage it. 

Col. You have managed finely indeed, to 
put Harwood into such a state with your mum- 
mery. 

Jig. Will he not come to himself again ^ 
Get some water, Mariane — See how pale he 
is I {He recovers.) O! he recovers ! Harwood ! 
do you know me, Harwood.-' 

Har. (looking upon Agnes, and shrinking 
back from her.) Ha ! what has brought you 
here ? leave me I leave me ! I am wretched 
enough already. 

Jig. 1 come to bring you relief, my dear 
Harwood. 

Har. No, madam, it is misery you bring. 
We must part forever. 

Ag. O ! uncle ! do you hear that ? He says 
We must part forever. 

With, {taking hold of Agnes.) Don't be in 
such a hurry aljout it. 

Hnr. {rising up.) Hov7 came you here .' 
{to Withrington,) and these ladies.' 
R'ty. O ! it was all my contrivance. 
With. Pray now, Royston, be quiet a little. 
— Mr. Harwood, I will speak to you serious- 
ly. T see you are attached lo my niece, and 
I confess she has many faults ; iDut you are 
a man of sense, and with you she will make 
a more respectable figure in the woHd than with 
any other ; I am anxious for her welfare, and 
if you will marry her. I will give her such a 
fortune as will make it no longer an impru- 
dent step to follow your inclinations. 

Har. No, Sir, yon shall keep your fortune 
and your too bewitching niece together. For 
her sake I would have renounced all ambi- 
tion ; I would have shared with her poverty 
and neglect ; I would have borne with all her 
fiults and weaknesses of nature ; I would 
have toiled, I would have bled for her ; but I 
can never yoke myself with unworthiness. 

A'T. {wipinr her c/es, and giving two skips 
upon the floor.) O! ad,nirablel admirable! 
speak to him uncle ! tell him all, my dear un- 
cle ! for I can't say a word. 



Col. {aside to Royston.) Isn't she a little 
wrong in the head, Royston ? 

With. Give me your hand, Harwood: you 
are a noble fellow, and you shall marry this 
little girl of mine after all. This story of the 
letter and Lady Fade, was only a concerted 
one amongst us, to prove what mettle you 
are made of. Agnes, to try your love, affect- 
ed to be shrewish and extrav<agant ; and af- 
terwards, at my suggestion, to try your prin- 
ciples, contrived this little plot, which has 
just now- been unravelled: but I do assure 
you, on the word of an honest man, there is 
not a hetter girl in the kingdom. I must own, 
however, she is a fanciful little toad. (Har- 
wood runs to Agnes, catches her in his arms, 
and runs two or three times round icith her, then 
takes her hand and kisses it, and then puts his 
knee to the ground.) 

Har. My charming, my delightful Agnes ! 
Oh ! what a fool have I been ! how could I 
suppose it .' 

Ag. We took some pains with you, and it 
would have been hard if we cotild not have 
deceived you amongst us all. 

Har. And so thou art a good girl, a very 
good girl. 1 know thou art, I'll be hang'd 
if thou hast one fault in the world. 

With. No, no, Harwood, not quite so per- 
fect. I can prove her still to be an arrant 
cheat : for she pretended to be careless of you 
when' she thought of you all the day long ; 
and she pretended to be poor with an hundred 
thousand pounds, independent of any one, in 
her possession. She is Miss Withrington 
the heiress ; and this lady, {pointing to Ma- 
riane,) has only been her representative, for 
a time, for reasons which I shall explain to 
you by-and-by. (Harwood lets go Agnes's 
hand, and steps back some paces icith a certain 
crravity and distance in his air.) 

With. What is the matter now, Harwood ? 
does this cast a damp upon you ? 

Roy. It is a weighty distress truly. Ha, ha, 
ha, ha ! 

Col. By heaven this is good. 
Ag. {going up to Harwood, «?«/ holding out 
her hand.) Do not look so distantly upon me, 
Harwood : you was willing to marry me as a 
poor woman ; if there is any thing in my for- 
tune which offends you, I scatter it to the 
winds. 

Har. My admirable girl I it is astonishment, 
it is something I cannot express, which over- 
comes, I had almost said distresses me, at 
present. (Presenting her to the Colonel.) Col- 
onel Hardy, this is the woman I have raved 
about ! this is the woman I have boasted of! 
this is my Agnes ! and this, Miss Withring- 
ton. is Colonel Hardy, my own, and my fa- 
tiier's friend. 

Ag. {holding out her hand to the Colonel.) 
He shall be mine too. Every friend of yours 
shall be my friend, Harwood ; but the friend 
to your father my most respected one. 
Har. Do you hear that, Colonel .' 
Col. I hear it ; my heart hears it, and blesses 
you both. 



THE TRYAL : A COMEDY. 



83 



Har. {to With.) My dear Sir, what shall 1 
say to you for all this goodness ? 

.9g. Tell him he is the dearest good uncle 
on earth, and we will love him all our lives 
for it. Yes, indeed, we will, uncle, (taking 
his haiid.) very, very dearly ! 

Roy. Now, good folks, have not I managed 
it cleverly .' 

Mar. Pray let me come from the back ground 
a little : and since I must quit all the splen- 
dour of heiress-ship, I desire, at least, that I 
may have some respect paid me for having 
filled the situation so well, as the old Mayor 
receives the thanks of the corporation, when 
the new mayor — Bless me ! here comes Opal ! 
I have not quite done with it yet. 

With. Your servant, Mr. Opal. 

Mar. (to Op.) Are you not surprised to find 
us all here .•' 

Op. Harwood I know is a very lucky fel- 
low, but I knew you were here. It is impos- 
sible, you see, to escape me. But (half aside 
to Mariane.) I wanted to tell you Colonel 
Beaumont is come to Bath. Now 1 should 
like to be introduced to him on his arrival. 
He will be very much the fashion I dare say, 
and I should like to have a friendship for him. 
You understand me ? You can procure this for 
me, I know. 

With. Come, Mr. Opal, you must join in 
our good humour here, for we have just been 
making up a match. My niece, Agnes, with 
a large fortune, bestows herself on a worthy 
man, who would have married her without 
one ; and Mariane, who for certain reasons 
has assumed her character of heiress since we 
came to Bath, leaves all her borrowed state, 
in hopes that the man who would have mar- 
ried her with a fortune, will not now forsake 
her. 

Op. (stammering.) WIi— Wh — What is all 
this .' 

Roy. (half aside to Opal.) You seem dis- 
turbed, Mr. Opal; you have not been paying 
your addresses to her, I hope. 

Op. (aside to Royston.) No, not paying my 
addresses ; that is to say, not absolutely. I 
have paid her some attention to be sure. 

Roy. (nodding significantly.) It is well for 
you it is no worse. 

Mar. (turning to Opal, who looks very much 
frightened ) What is it you say ! Don't you 
think I overheard it .'' Not paid your address- 
es to me ! O ! you false man ! can you deny 
the declarations you have made .'' the oaths 
you have sworn .'' O ! you false man ! 

Op. Upon honour, Madam, we men of the 
world don't expect to be called to an account 
for every foolish thing we say. 

Mar. What you have written then shall 
witness against you. Will you deny this 
promise of marriage in your own hand-writ- 
ing .' (Taking out a paper.) 

Roy. (aside to Op.) What, a promise of 
marriage, Mr. Opal .' The devil himself 
could not have put it into your head to do a 
worse thing than this. 



Op. (very frightened, but making a great 
exertion.) Don't think. Ma'am, to bully me 
into the match. I can prove that promise to 
be given to you under the false character of 
an heiress, therefore your deceit loosens the 
obligation. 

With. Take care what you say. Sir ; (to 
Op.) I will not see my niece wronged. The 
law shall do her justice, whatever e.xpence it 
may cost me. 

Mar. Being an heiress, or not, has nothing 
to do in the matter, Mr. Opal ; for you ex- 
pressly say in this promise, that my beauty 
and perfections alone have induced you to 
engage yourself; and I will take all the men 
in court to witness, whether I am not as 
handsome to-day as I was yesterday. 

Op. I protest there is not such a word in 
the paper. 

Mar. (holding out the paper.) O base man ! 
will you deny your own writing.' (Op. 
snatches the paper from her, tears it to pieces.) 

Mar. (gathering up the scattered pieces.) O ! 
I can put them together again. (Op. snatch- 
ing tip one of the pieces, crams it into his viouth 
and cheics it.) 

Roy. Chew fast, Opal ! she will snatch it 
out of your mouth else. There is another 
bit for you. (Offering him another piece.) 

Mar. (Bursting into a loud laugh, in which 
all the company join.) Is it very nice, INIr. 
Opal .'' You munch it up as expeditiously as 
a bit of plum-cake. 

Op. What the deuce does all this mean ! 

With. This naughty girl, Mr. Opal, has 
only been amusing herself with your promise 
which she never meant to make any other 
use of; she is already engaged to a very wor- 
thy young man, who will receive with her a 
fortune by no means contemptible. 

Op. Well, well, much good may it do him : 
what do I care about — (mumbling to himse'f) 

Roy. Ha, ha, ha ! how some people do get 
themselves into scrapes ! They have no 
more notion of managing their affairs than so 
many sheep. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Enter Humphry. 

Humph, (to Roy.) I would speak a word 
with your honour. ( Whispers to Royston.) 

Roy. (in a rage.) What ! given away the 
place ! It is some wicked machination ! It is 
some damn'd trick ! 

With. Be moderate, Royston : what has 
good Mr. Humphry been telling you ? 

Roy. O I the devil of a bite ! his Grace has 
given away the place to a poor simpleton, 
who had never a soul to speak for him I 

With. Who told you this, Mr. Humphry .' 

Humph. Truly, Sir, I called upon his 
Grace's gentleman, just to make up a kind 
of acquaintance with him, as his honour de- 
sired me, and he told me it was given away 
this morning. 

Roy. What cursed luck ! 

Humph. " Why," says I, '•' I thought my 
master was to have had it, Mr. Smoothly." 



84 



THE TRYAL i A COMEDY. 



" And so he would," says he, " but one per- 
Bon came to the Duke aller another, teasing 
him about Mr. Royston, till he grew quite im- 
patient ; for there was but one of all those 
friends," says he, winking with his eye so, 
" who did speak at last to the purpose ; but 
then, upon Mr. Sucksops taking up your 
master's interest, he shrunk back from his 
word, which oifended his Grace very much." 

Roy. Blundering blockhead ! 

Humph. And so lie gave away the place di- 
rectly to poor Mr. Drudgewell, who had no 
recommendation at all, but fifteen years hard 
service in the office. 

Roy. Well, now ! well, now ! you see how 
the world goes; simpletons and idiots carry 
every thing before them. 

With. Nay, Royston, blame yourself too. 
Did not I tell you, you had found out too 
many roads to one place, and would lose your 
way amongst them .'' 

Roy. No, no, it is all that cursed perverse 
fate of mine ! By the Lord, half the trouble 



I have taken for this paltry office, would 
have procured some people an archbishoprick ! 
There is Harwood, now, fortune presses her- 
.self upon him, and makes him, at one stroke, 
an idle gentleman for life. 

Har. No, Sir, an idle gentleman I will never 
be : my Agnes shall never be the wife of any 
thing so contemptible. 

Jig. I thank you, Harwood ; I do, indeed, 
look for honourable distinction in being your 
wife. You shall still exert your powers in the 
profession you have chosen : you shall be the 
weak one's stay, the poor man's advocate ; 
you shall gain fair fame in recompense, and 
that will be our nobility. 
. With. Well said, my children ! you have 
more sense than I thought you had amongst 
all these whimsies. Now, let us take our leave 
of plots and story-telling, if you please, and 
all go to my house to supper. Royston shall 
drown his disappointment in a can of warm 
negus, and Mr. Opal shall have something 
more palatable than his last spare morsel. 

[Exeunt. 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

De Monfort. 

Rezenvelt. 

Count Freberg, Friend to De Monfort and 

Rezenvelt. 
Manuel, Servant to De Monfort. 
Jerome, De Monfor^Xo/d Landlord. 
Conrad, an artful Kna 
Bernard, a Monk. 

Monks, Gentlemen, Officers, PSoge, S^c. 8fC. 

WOMEN. 

Jane De Monfort, Sister to De Monfort. 
Countess Freberg, ^i/e Zo Freberg. 
Theresa, Servant to the Countess. 

Abbess, Nuns, and a Lay Sister, Ladies, <^c. 

%* Scene, a Town in Germany. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — jerome's hocse. a large 

OLD-FASHIONED CHAMBER. 

Jer. (speaking vyithout.) This way, good 
masters. 

Enter Jerome, bearing a light, and followed by 
Manuel, and servants carrying luggage. 

Rest your burthens here. 
This spacious room will please the Marquis 

best. 
He takes me unawares ; but ill prepar'd : 
If he had sent, e'en tho' a hasty notice, 
I had been glad. 

Man. Be not disturb'd, good Jerome; 

Thy house is in most admirable order ; 
And they who travel o' cold winter nights 
Think homeliest quarters good. 
Jer. He is not far behind .' 
Man. A little way. 

{To the Servants.) Go you and wait below till 
he arrives. 
Jer. (shaking Manuel by the hand.) Indeed, 
my friend, I'm glad to see you here, 
Yet marvel wherefore. 

Man. I marvel wherefore too, my honest 
Jerome : 
But here we are ; pri'thee be kind to us. 
Jer. Most heartily 1 will. I love your mas- 
ter: 



He is a quiet and a lib'ral man : 

A better inmate never crossed my door. 

Man. Ah ! but he is not now the man he 
was. 
Lib'ral he'll be. God grant he may be quiet. 

Jer. What has befallen him ? 

Man. I cannot tell thee ; 

But faith, there is no living with him now. 

Jer. And yet methinks,if I remember well, 
You were about to quit his service, Manuel, 
When last he left this house. You grumbled 
then. 

Man. I've been upon the eve of leaving him 
These ten long years ; for many times is he 
So difficult, capricious, and distrustful, 
He galls my nature — yet, I know not how, 
A secret kindness binds me to him still. 

Jer. Some, who offend from a suspicious 
nature. 
Will afterward such fair confession make 
As turns e'en the offence into a favour. 

Maji. Yes, some indeed do so : so will not 
he: 
He'd rather die than such confession make. 

Jer. Ay, thou art right; for now I call to 
mind 
That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspi- 
cion. 
When first he came to lodge beneath my roof; 
And when it so fell out that I was prov'd 
Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought 
He would have made profession of regret. 
But silent, haughty, and ungraciously 
He bore himself as one offended still. 
Yet shortly after, when unwittingly 
I did him some slight service, o'the sudden 
He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks ; 
And would not berestrain'd from pressing on 

me 
A noble recompense. I understood 
His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well, 
And took it as he meant. 

Man. 'Tis often thus. 

I would have left him many years ago, 
But that with all Ms faults there sometimes 

come 
Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart, 
As might engage a harder churl than me 
To serve him still. — And then his sister too ; 
A noble dame, who should have been a queen : 
The meanest of her hinds, at her command. 
Had fought like lions for her, and the poor, 
E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd 

her — 
She would have griev'd if I had left my Lord. 

Jer. Comes she along with him .'' 

Man. No, he departed all unknown to her, 



86 



DE MONFORT i A TRAGEDY. 



Meaning- to keep conceal 'd his secret route ; 
But well I knew it would afflict her much, 
And therefore left a little nameless billet, 
Which after our departure, as I guess, • 
Would fall into her hands, and tell her all. 
What could I do .'' O 'tis a noble lady ! 

Jer. All this is strange — something disturbs 
his mind — 
Belike he is in love. 

Man. No, Jerome, no. 

Once on a time I serv'd a noble master. 
Whose youth was blasted with untoward love. 
And he with hope and fear and jealousy 
Forever tossd, led an unquiet life ; 
Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit. 
His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore 
As mov'd a kindly heart to pity him. 
But Monfort, even in his calmest hour. 
Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye 
Whicli powerfully repels all sympathy. 

no! good Jerome, no; it is not love. 

Jer. Hear I not horses trampling at the 
gate .'' [Listening .) 

He is arriv'd — stay thou — I had forgot — 
A plague upon't ! my head is so confusd — 

1 will return i' the instant to receive him. 

(Exit hastily.) 
{Jl great hustle without. Exit Manuel with 
lights, and returns again, lighting in De 
Monfort, as if just alighted from his jour- 
ney.) 

Man. Your ancient host, my Lord, receives 
you gladly. 
And your apartment will be soon prepar'd. 
De Mon. 'Tis well. 

Man. Where shall I place the chest you 
gave in charge .' 
So please you, say my Lord. 

De Mon. (throwing himself into a chair.) 

Where'er thou wilt. 
Man. 1 would not move that luggage till 
you came. (Pointing to certain things.) 
De Mon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble 
me no more. 
(Manuel, with the assistance of other servants, 
sets about putting the things in order, and 
De Monfort remains sitting in a thoughtful 
posture.) 

Enter Jerome, bearing wine, &c. on a salver. 
As he approaches De Monfort, Manuel 
pulls him by the sleeve. 

Man. {aside to Jerome.) No, do not now; 

he will not be disturb"d. 
Jer. What, not to bid him welcome to my 
house. 
And offer some refreshment ? 

Man. No, good Jerome. 

Softly a little while : I pri'thee do. 
(Jerome walks softly on tiptoes, till he gets be- 
hind De Monfort, then peeping on one side to 
see his face.) 

Jer. (aside to Manuel.) Ah, Manuel, what 
an alter'd man is here ! 
His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale — 
He left this house a comely gentleman. 



De Mon. Who whispers there .' 

Man. 'Tis your old landlord. Sir. 

Jer. I joy to se» you here — I crave your- 

pardon — I fear I do intrude. — 
De Mon. No, my kmd host, I am obhg'd ta 

thee. 
Jer. How fares it with your honour .' 
De Mon. Well enough. 

Jer. Here is a little of the fav'rite wine 
That you were wont to praise. Pray honour 
me. (Fills a glass.) 

De Mon. (after drinking.) 1 thank you, Je- 
rome, 'tis delicious. 
Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so. 
De Mon. And how does she ? 
Jer. Alas, my Lord ! she's dead. 

De Mon. Well, then she is at rest. 
Jer. How well, my Lord ? 

De Mon. Is she not with the dead, the quiet 
dead, 
Where all is peace ? Not e'en the impious 

wretch. 
Who tears the coffin from its earthly vault. 
And strews the mould'ring ashes to the wind. 
Can break their rest. 
Jer. Woe's me ! I thought you would have 
grieved for her. . 
She was a kindly soul ! Before she died, 
When pining sickness bent her cheerless head, 
She set my house in order — 
And but the morning ere she breath'd her last. 
Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine. 
That should the Lord de Monfort come again 
His cup might sparkle still. (De Monfort 
walks across the stage, and wipes his 
eyes.) 
Indeed I fear I have distress'd you. Sir ; 
I surely thought you would be grieved for her. 
De Mon. (taking Jerome's hand.) I am, my 
friend. How long has she been dead .' 
Jer. Two sad long years. 
De Mon. Would she were living still ! 

I was too troublesome, too heedless of her. 
Jer. O no ! she lov'd to serve you. 

(Loud knocking icithout.) 
De Mon. What fool comes here, at such 
untimely hours. 
To make this cursed noise .' (To Manuel.) Go 
to the gate. [Exit Manuel. 

All sober citizens are gone to bed ; 
It is some drunkards on their nightly rounds. 
Who mean it but in sport. 

Jer. I hear unusual voices — here they come. 

Re-enter Manuel, shewing in Count Freberg 
and his Ladv, with a mask in her hand. 

Freh. (running to embrace De Mon.) My 
dearest Monfort ! most unlook'd for 
pleasure ! 
Do I indeed em'orace thee here again .' 
I saw thy servant standing by the gate. 
His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings. 
Welcome, thrice welcome here ! 
De Mon. I thank thee, Freberg, for this 
friendly visit, 
And this fair Lady too. (Bowing to the lady.) 
Lady. I fear, ray Lord, 



DEMONFORT: A' TRAGEDY. 



87 



We do intrude at an 'untimely hour : 
But now, returning from a midnight mask, 
My husband did insist that we should enter. 
Frch. No, say not so ; no hour untimely call, 
Which doth together bring long absent friends. 
Dear Monfort, why hast thou so slyly play'd, 
To come upon us thus so su-ddeniy .'' 

DeM on. Ol many varied thoughts do cross 
our brain. 
Which touch the will , but leave the memory 

trackless ; 
And yet a strange compounded motive make. 
Wherefore a man should bend his evening 

walk 
To th' east or west, the forest or the field. 
Is it not often so .-• 

Freh. I ask no more, happy to see you here 
From any motive. There is one behind, 
Whose presence would have been a double 

bliss : 
Ah ! how is she ^ The noble Jane De Monfort. 
De Mon. (confused.) She is — I have — I left 

my sister well. 
Lady, (to Freberg.) My Freberg, you are 
heedless of respect : 
You surely mean to say the Lady Jane. 
■Freb. Respect ! No, Madam ; Princess, 
Empress, Queen, 
Could not denote a creature so exalted 
As this plain appellation doth. 
The noble Jane De Monfort. 

Lady, (turning from him displeased to Mon.) 
You are fatigued, my Lord ; you want repose ; 
Say, should we not retire ? 

Freh. Ha ! is it so .'' 

My friend, your face is pale, have you been 
ill ? 
De Mon. No, Freberg, no ; I think I have 

been well. 
Freb. (shaking his head.) I fear thoU hast 
not, Monfort — Let it pass. 
We'll re-establish thee : we'll banish pain. 
I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends. 
And we shall spend together glorious hours. 
That gods might envy. Little time so spent 
Doth far outvalue all tDUr life beside. 
This is indeed our life, our waking life, 
The rest dull breathing sleep. 

De Mon. Thus, it is true, from the sad 
years of life 
We sometimes do short hours, yea minutes 

strike-, 
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten; 
Which, thro' the dreary gloom of time o'er- 

past. 
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. 
But few they are, as few the heaven-fir'd souls 
Whose magick power creates them. Bless'd 

art thou, 
If, in the ample circle of thy friends. 
Thou canst but boast a few. 

Freb. Judge for thyself: in truth I do not 
boast. 
There is amongst my friends, my later friends, 
A mostaccomplish'd stranger: new to Amberg; 
But just arriv'd, and will ere long depart. 
I met him in Franconia two years since. 



He is so full of pleasant anecdote. 
So rich, so gay, so poignant is his wit, 
Time vanishes before him as he speaks. 
And ruddy morning thro' the lattice peeps 
Ere night seems well begun. 

Dc Mon. Ho\v is he call'd ? 

Freh. I will surprise thee with a welcome 
face : 
I will not tell thee now. 

Lady, (to Mon.) I have, my Lofd, a small 
request to make, 
And must not be denied. I too may boast 
Of some good friends, and beauteous country- 
women : 
To-morrow night I open wide my doors 
To all the fair and gay : beneath my roof 
Musick, and dance, and revelry shall reign; 
I pray you come and grace it with your pre- 
sence. 
De Mon. You lionour me too much to be 

denied. 
Lady. I thank you, Sir ; and in return for 
this. 
We shall withdraw, and leave you to repose. 
Freh. Must it be so ? Good night — sweet 

sleep to thee ! (To De Monfort. j 
De Mon. (to Freh.) Goodnight. (To Lady.) 

Good night, fair Lady. 
Lady. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Freberg and Lady. 
Dc Mon. (to Jer.) I thought Count Freberg 

had been now in France. 
Jer. He meant to go, as I have been in- 

form'd. 

De Mon. Well, well,prepare my bed ; 1 will 

to rest. [Exit Jerome. 

De Mon. (aside.)' I know not how it is, my 

heart stands back. 

And meets not this man's love. — Friends ! 

rarest friends ! 
Rather than share his undiscerning praise 
With every table wit, and book-form'd sage, 
And paltry poet puling to the moon, 
I'd court from him proscription, yea abuse. 
And think it proud distinction. [Exit. 

Scene IL— a small apartment in Je- 
rome's HOUSE-: A table and break- 
fast set out. 
Enter De Monfort, followed by Manuel, and 
sets himself down by the table, with a cheerful 
face. 

De Mon. Manuel, this morning's sun shines 
pleasantly : 
These old apartments too are light and cheer- 
ful. 
Our landlord's kindness has reviv'd me much; 
He serves as though he lov'd me. This pure 

air 
Braces the listless nerves, and wai-ms the 

blood : 
I feel in freedom here. 

(Filling a cup of coffee, and drinking.) 
Man. Ah ! sure, my Lord, 

No air is purer than the air at home. 

De Mon. Here can I wander with assured 
steps, 



88 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



Nor dread, at every winding of the path, 
Lest an abhorred serpent cross my way, 
To move — (stojiplng short.) 

Man. What says your honour ? 
There are no serpents in our pleasant fields. 
Dc Mon. Think'st thou there are no' ser- 
pents in the world 
But those who slide along the grassy sod, 
And sting the luckless foot that presses them ? 
Tliere are -who in the path of social life 
Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun, 
And sting the soul — Ay, till its healthful frame 
Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease, 
So deadly is the wound. 

Man. Heaven guard your honour from such 
horrid skathe ! 
They are but rare, I hope .' 

Dc Mon. {shaking his head.) We mark the 
hollow eye, the wasted frame. 
The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men. 
But do not know the cause. 

Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, 

my Lord ! 
De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very 
well. 
I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. 
I go to revel it with sprightly dames. 
And drive the night away. 

(Filling another cup, and drinking.) 
Man. I should be glad to see your honour 

gay. 
De Mon. And thou too shall be gay. There, 
honest Manuel, 
Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse. 
And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. 
Here is one too, for Bremer : he loves wine ; 
And one for Jaques : be joyful all together. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. My Lord, 1 met e'en now, a short way 

off. 
Your countryman the Marquis Rezenvelt. 
Dc Mon. {starting from his seat, and letting 

the cup fall from his hand.) Who, 

say'st thou.'' 
Ser. Slarquirf Rezenvelt, an' please you. 
De Mon. Thou ly'sl — it is not so — it is im- 
possible ! 
Ser. I saw him with these eyes, plai)i as 

yourself. 
De Mon. Fool! 'tis some passing stranger 

thou hast seen, 
And with a hideous likeness been deceiv'd. 
Ser. No other stranger could deceive my 

sight. 
De Mon. {dashing his clenched hand violrnt- 

ly upon the table, and overturning 

every thing.) Heaven blast thy 

sight ! it lights on nothing good. 
Ser. I surely thought no harm to look upon 

hiui. 
De Mon. What, dost thou still insist.' Him 

must it be .' 
Does it so please thee well ! (Servant endcar- 
ours to speak.) Hold tiiy damn'd 

tono-ue ! 



By heaven I'll kill thee! {Going furiously 
up to him.) 
Man. {in a soothing voice.) Nay harm him 
not, my Lord ; he speaks the truth ; 
I've met his groom, who told me certainly 
His Lord is here. I should have told you so,- 
But thougiit, perhaps, it might displease your 
honour. 
De Mon. {becoming all at once calm, and 
turning sternly to Manuel.) And 
how dar'st thou think it would dis- 
please me ? 
What is't to me who leaves or enters Amberg.'' 
But it displeases me, yea ev'n to frenzy, 
That ev'ry idle fool must hither come, 
To break my leisure with the paltry tidings 
Of all the cursed things he stares upon. 

(Servant attempts to speak — De 
Monfort stamps with his foot.) 
Take thine ill-favoured visage from my sight, 
And speak of it no more. Exit Servant. 

And go thou too ; I choose to be alone. 

[Exit Manuel. 
(De Monfort goes to the door by which they 

went out ; opens it and looks.) 
But is he gone indeed ? Yes, he is gone. 
{Goes to the opposite door, opens it, and looks: 
then gives loose to all the fury of gesture and 
walks up and down in great agitation.) 
It is too much : by heaven it is too much ! 
He haunts me — stings me — like a devil 

haunts — 
He'll make a raving maniack of me — Villain ! 
The air wherein thou draw'st thy fulsome 

breath 
Is poison to me — Oceans shall divide us ! 

{Pauses.) 
But no ; thou tliink'st I fear thee, cursed rep- 
tile; 
And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. 
Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy 

sight, 
I'll stay and face thee still. 

{Knocking at the chamber door.) 

Ha ! who knocks there f 

Freb. {without.) It is thy friend, De 

Monfort. 
De Mon. {opening the door.) Enter, then. 

Enter Frebekg. 

Freh. {taking his hand kindly.) How art 
thou now .'' How hast thou past the 
night .' 
Has kindly sleep refresh'd tlice ? 

De Mon. Yes, I have lost an hour or two 
in sleep, 
And so should be refresh'd. 

Frcb. And art thou not .' 

Thy looks speak not of rest. Thou art dis- 
turb'd. 
De Mon. No, somewhat ruffled from a fool- 
ish cause, 
Which soon will pass away. 

Freh. {shaking his head.) Ah no, De Mon- 
fort ! something in thy face 
Tells me another tale. Then wrong me not 



DE MONFORTt A TRAGEDY, 



39 



If any secret grief distract thy soul, 
Here am I all devoted to thy" love : 
Open thy heart to me. What troubles thee ? 
Dc Moil. I have no grief: distress me not, 

my friend. 
Freb. Nay, do not call me so. Wert thou 
my friend, 
Wouldst thou not open all thine inmost soul. 
And bid me share its every consciousness ? 
Dc Mon. Freberg, thou know'st not man ; 
not nature's man, 
-But only him who, in smooth studied works 
Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully 
In all the splendid foppery of virtue. 
That man was never born whose secret soul, 
With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts, 
Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild 

dreams. 
Was ever open'd to another's scan. 
Away, away ! it is delusion all. 

Freb. Well, be reserv'd then; perhaps I'm 

wrong. 
De Mon. How goes the hour ? 
Freb. 'Tis early still ; a long day lies be- 
fore us ; 
Let us enjoy it. Come along with me ; 
I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend. 
De Mon. Your pleasant friend ? 
Freb. Yes, him of whom I spake. 

{Taking his hand.) 
There is nn good I v/ould not share with 

thee ; 
And this man's compan}', to minds like thine, 
Is the best banquet-feast I could bestow. 
But I will speak in mystery no more ; 
It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt. 

( De Mon. pulls his hand hastily from 
Freberg, and shrinks back.) Ha ! 
what is this .'' Art thou pain-strick- 
en, Monfort .■" 
Nay, on my life, thou rather seem'st of- 
fended : 
Does it displease thee that I call him friend.? 
De Mon No, all men are thy friends. 
Freb. No, say not all men. But thou art 
offended. 
I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure. 
But if his presence is not welcome here. 
He shall not join our company to-day. 

De Mon. What dost thou mean to say.' 
What is't to me 
Whether I meet ^vith such a thing as Rez- 
envelt 
To-day, to-morrow, every day, or never ? 
Freb. In truth, I thougiit you had been 
well with him. 
He prais'd you much. 

DeMon. I thank him for his praise — Come, 
let us move : 
This chamber is confin'd and airless grown. 

(Startijig.) 
1 hear a stranger's voice ! 

Freb. 'Tis Rezenvelt. 

Let him be told that wc are gone abroad. 
De Mon. {jtroudly.) No ! let him enter 
Who waits there .' Ho ! Manuel ! 



Enter Manuel. 

What stranger speaks below .•' 

Man. The Marquis Rezenvelt. 

I have not told him that you are within. 
De Mon. {angrily.) And wherefore didst 

thou not .' Let him ascend. 
{A long pause. De Monfort icalking up and 
dmcn with a quick pace.) 

Enter Rezenvelt, nnd runs freely up to De 
Monfort. 

Kcz. {to De Mon.) My noble Marquis, wel- 
come ! 
Da Mon. Sir, I thank you. 

Eez. {to Freb.) My gentle friend, well met. 

Abroad so early ? 
Freb. It is indeed an early hour for me. 
How sits thy last night's revel on thy spirits.' 
Rez. O, light as ever. On my way to you, 
E'en now, I learnt De Monfort was arriv'd, 
And turn'd my steps aside ; so hero I am. 

{Bowing gaily to De Monfort ) 
Dc Mon. I thank you, tSir ; you do me too 
much honour. {Proudly.) 

Rez. Nay, say not so; not too much hon- 
our surely, 
Unless, indeed, 'tis more than pleases you. 
De Mon. {confused.) Having no previous 
notice of your coming, 
I look'd not for it. 

Rez. Ay, true indeed; when I approach 
j'ou nest, 
I'll send a herald to proclaim my coming. 
And bow to you by sound of trumpet, Mar- 
quis. 
Dc Mon. {to Freb. turning haughtily from 
Rezenvelt tcith affected indifference.) 
How does your cheerful friend, that 
good old man ^ 
Freb. My cheerful friend .' I know not 

whom you mean. 
De Mon. Count Waterian. 
Freh. I knov/ not one so nam'd. 
De Mon. {very confused.) O pardon me — it 

was at Bale I knew him. 
Freb. You have not yet inquir'd for honest 
Reisdale. 
I met him as I came, and mention'd you. 
He seem'd amazd ; and fain he would have 

learnt 
What cause procur'd us so much happiness. 
He question"d hard, and hardly would believe, 
I could not satisfy his strong desire. 

Rez. And know you not what brings De 

Monfort here .' 
Freb. Truly, I do not. 
Rez. " O! 'tis love of me. 

I have but tv.-o short days in Amberg been, 
And here with postman's speed he follows me, 
Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown. 
Freb. {to De Mon.) Is Rezenvelt so sadly 
miss'd with you .' 
Your town so chang'd .' 

De Mon. Not altogether so ; 

Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain. 
For fools to laugh at. 



90 



DE MONFORT i A TRAGEDY. 



Rez. But he laughs not, and therefore he is 
wise. 
He ever frowns on them with sullen brow 
Contemptuous ; therefore he is very wise. 
Nay, daily frets his most refined soul 
With their poor folly, to its inmost core ; 
Therefore he is most eminently wise. 

FrcB. Fy, Rezenvelt ! you are too early gay. 
Such spirits rise but with the ev'ning glass : 
They suit not placid morn. 
(To De MonfoTl,ivlio,(iftericalking impatient- 
ly up and down, comes close to his ear, and 

lays hold of his arm.) 

What would you, Monfort.' 

De Mon. Nothing — what is't o'clock .' 
No, no — I had forgot — 'tis early still. 

(Tunis azimy again.) 

Freb. (to Rez.) Waltser informs me that you 
have agreed 
To read his verses o'er, and tell the truth. 
It is a dangerous task. 

Rez. Yet I'll be honest : 

I can but lose his favor and a feast. , 
(imist they speak, De Monfort loalks up and 

doun impatiently and irresolute; at last, 

pulls the bell violently.) 

Enter Servant. 

De Mon. (to Ser.) What dost thou want .' 
Ser. I thought your honor rung. 

De Mon. I have forgot — slay ; are my hor- 
ses saddled ? 
Ser. I thought, my Lord, you would not ride 
to-day, 
After so long a journey. 

De Mon. (impatiently.) Well — 'tis good. 
Begone ! — I want thee not. [Exit Servant. 
Rez. (smiling significantly.) I humbly crave 
your pardon, gentle JVIarquis. 
It grieves me that I cannot stay with you. 
And make my visit of a friendly length. 
I trust your goodness will excuse me now ; 
Another time I shall be less unkind. 
(To Freberg.) Will you not go with me .-' 
Freb. Excuse me, Monfort, I'll return again. 
[Exeunt Rezenvelt and Freberg. 
De Mo?!,, (alone, tossing his arms distract- 
edly.) 
Hell hath no greater torment for tli' accurs'd 
Than this man's presence gives — 
Abhorred fiend I he hath a pleasure too, 
A damned pleasure in the pain he gives ! 
Oh 1 the side glance of that detested eye ! 
That conscious smile I that full insulting lip ! 
It touches every nerve : it makes me mad. 
What, does it please thee ? Dost thou woo my 

hate .■' 
Hate shall tliou have ! determiu'd, deadly 

hate. 
Which shall awake no smile. Malignant vil- 
lain ! 
The venom of thy mind is rank and devilish, 
And thin the film that hides it. 
Thy hateful visage ever spoke thy worth : 
I loath'd thee when a boy. 
That men should be besotted with him thus! 
And Freberg likewise so bewitched is, 



That, like a hireling flatt'rer, at his heels 
He meanly paces, ofTring brutish praise. 
O ! I could curse him too ! [Exit, 



ACT II. 



Scene I. — a very splendid apart- 
ment IN COUNT FREEERG'S HOUSE, 
FANCIFULLY DECORATED. A WIDE 

FOLDING DOOR OPENED, SHEWS ANOTH- 
ER MAGNIFICENT ROOM LIGHTED UP 
TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 

Enter through the folding c'oors the Count and 
CouNTKSS, richly dressed, 
Freb. (looking round.) In truth, I like those 
decorations well : 
They suit those lofty walls. And here, my 

love, 
The gay profusion of a woman's fancy 
Is well display 'd. Noble simplicity 
Becomes us less, on such a night as this, 
Than gaudy show. 

Lady. Is it not noble then ? (He shakes his 
head.) I thought it so; 
And as I know you love simplicity, 
I did intend it should be simple too. 

Freb. Be satisfy 'd, I pray; we want to-night 
A cheerful banquet-house, and not a temple. 
How runs the hour .' 

Lady. It is not late, but soon we shall be 
rous'd 
With the loud entry of our frolick guests. 

Enter a Page, richly dressed. 
Page. Madam, there is a lady in your hall, 
Who begs to be admitted to your presence. 
Ladij. Is it not one of our invited friends ? 
Page. No, far unlike to them ; it is a stran- 
ger. 
Lady. How looks her countenance .' 
Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so 
noble, 
I shrunk at first in awe ; but when she srail'd, 
For so she did to see me thus abash'd, 
Methought I could have compass'd sea and 

land 
To do her bidding. 

Lady. Is she young or old ? 

Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she ia 
fair : 
For time hath laid his hand so gently on her, 
As he too had been aw'd. 

Lady. The foolish stripling ! 

She has bewitch'd thee. Is she large is stat- 
ure .' 
Page. So stately and so graceful in her 
form , 
I thought at first lier stature was gigantick ; 
But on a near a])proach I found, in truth, 
She scarcely does surpass the middle size. 
Lady. Wliat is her garb .' 
Paa-e. I cannot well describe the fashion of 
it. 
She is not deck'd in any gallant trim, 
But seems to me clad in the usual weeds 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



91 



Of high habitual state ; for as she moves, 
Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold, 
As I have seen unfurled banners play 
With the soft breeze. 

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; 
It is an apparition thou hast seen. 

Frob. (starting from, his seat, ichere he has 
been sitting during the conversation 
between the Lady and the Page.) It is 
an apparition he has seen. 
Or it is Jane De Monfort. [Exit, hastily. 

Lady, {displeased.) No; such description 
surely suits not her. 
Did she inquire for me .'' 

Page. She ask'd to see the lady of Count 

Freberg. 
Lady. Perhaps it is not she — I fear it is — 
Ha! here they come. He has but guess'd too 
well. 

Enter Freberg, leading in Jane De Mon- 
fort. 
Freb. (j)rcsenting her to Lady.) Here, Mad- 
am, welcome a most worthy guest. 
Lady. Madam, a thousand welcomes ! Par- 
don me ; 
I could not guess who honour'd me so far ; 
I should not else have waited coldly here. 
Jane. I thank yoii for this welcome, gentle 
Countess ; 
But take those kind excuses back again ; 
I am a bold intruder on this hour. 
And ani entitled to no ceremony. 
I came in quest of a dear truant friend, 
But Freberg has inform'd me — 
(To Freberg.) And he is well you say .'' 

Freb. Yes, well, but joyless. 

Jane. It is the usual temper of his mind ; 
It opens not, but with the thrilling touch 
Of some strong heart-string o'the sudden 
press'd. 
Freb. It may be so, I've known him other- 
wise : 
He is suspicious grown. 
June. Not so. Count Freberg, Monfort is 
too noble. 
Say rather, that he is a man in grief, 
Wearing at times a strange and scowling eye; 
And thou , less generous than beseems a friend. 
Hast thought too hardly of him. 

Freb. (bowing toith great respect.) So will I 
say ; 
I'll own nor word nor will, that can offend you. 
Lady. De Monfort is engag'd to grace our 
feast ; 
Ere long you'll see him here. 

Jane. I thank you truly, but this homely 
dress 
Suits not the splendour of such scenes as these. 
Freb. (pointing to her dress.) Such artless 
and majestick elegance. 
So exquisitely just, so nobly simple, 
Will make the gorgeous blush. 

Jane, (smiling.) Nay, nay, be more con- 
sistent, courteous knight, 
And do not praise a plain and simple guise 
With such profusion of unsimple words. 



I cannot join your Company to night. 
Lady. Not stay to see your brother .'' 
Jane. Therefore it is I would not, gentle 
hostess. 
Here will he find all that can woo the heart 
To joy and sweet forgetfulness of pain ; 
The sight of me would wake his feeling mind 
To other thoughts. I am no doting mistress; 
No fond distracted wife, who must forthwith 
Rush to his arms and weep. I am his sister : 
The eldest daughter of his father's house : 
Calm and unwearied is my love for him ; 
And having found him, patiently I'll wait. 
Nor greet him in the hour of social joy. 
To dash his mirth with tears. — 
The night wears on ; permit me to withdraw. 
Freb. Nay, do not, do not injure us so far I 
Disguise thyself, and join our friendly train. 
Jaite. You wear not masks to night. 
Lady. We wear not masks, but you may 
be conceal'd 
Behind the double foldings of a veil. 
Ja?ie. (after pausing to consider.) In truth, 
I feel a little so inclind. 
Methinks unknown, I e'en might speak to him, 
And gently prove the temper of his mind ; 
But for the means I must become your debtor. 

(To Lady.) 
Lady. Who waits .'' {Enter her Woman.) 
Attend this lady to my wardrobe. 
And do what she commands you. 

[E.XEUNT Jane and Waiting-woman. 
Freb. (looking after Ja.ne, as she goes out, 
loitk admiration.) Oh ! what a soul 
she bears ! see how she steps ! 
Nought but the native dignity of worth 
E'er taught the moving form such noble grace. 
Lady. Such lofty mien, and high assumed 
gait 
I've seen ere now, and men have call'd it 
pride. 
Freb. No, 'faith ! thou never didst, but oft 
indeed 
The paltry imitation thou hast seen. 
{Looking at her.) How hang those trappings 

on thy motley gown .' 
They seem like garlands on a May-day queen, 
Which hinds have dress 'd in sport. 

(Lady turns aioay displeased.) 
Freb. Nay, do not frown ; I spoke it but in 
haste : 
For thou art lovely still in ev'ry garb. 
But see, the guests assemble. 
Enter groups of well dressed people, who pay 
their compliments to Freberg and his Lady ; 
and, followed by her, pass into the inner apart- 
ment, where more company appear assembling, 
as if by another entry. 

Freb. (who remains on the front of the stage 
with a. friend or ttco.) How loud the 
hum of this gay-meeting crowd ! 

'Tis like a bee-swarm in the noonday sun. 

Musick will quell tlie sound. Who waits 
without ^ 

Musick strike up. 

(Musick, and when it ceases, enter from the 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



inner apartmait Rezcnvclt, with several gen- 
tlemen, all richly dressed.) 

Freb. (to those just entered.) What, lively 
gallants, quit the field so soon ? 
Are there no beauties in that moving crowd 
To fix your fancy ? 

Rcz. Ay, marry, are there ! men of ev"ry 
fancy 
May in tliat moving crowd some fair one find, 
To suit their taste, tho' whimsical and strange, 
As ever fancy own'd. 
Beauty of ever}' cast and .shade is there, 
From the perfection of a faultless form , 
Down to the common, brown Unnoted maid. 
Who loolvs Imt pretty in her Sunday gown. 

Isi Gtiot. There is, indeed, a gay variety. 

Jiez. And if the liberality of nature 
Suffices not, there's store of grafted charms, 
Blending in one the sweets of many plants. 
So obstinately, strangely opposite. 
As \vould have Vvcll deiy'd all other art 
But female cultivation. Aged youth, 
With borrow'd locks in rosy chapiets bound. 
Clothes her dim eye, parch d lips, and skinny 

cheek 
In most unlovely softness : 
And youthful age, with fat round trackless 

face. 
The downcast look of contemplation deep 
Most pensively assumes. 
Is it not even so.' The native prude. 
With forced laugh, and merriment uncouth. 
Plays ofli" the wild coquet's successful charms 
With most unskilful pains ; and the coquet, 
In temporary crust of cold reserve, 
Fixes her studied looks upon the ground 
Forbiddingly demure. 

Freb. Fy ! thou art too severe. 

Rez. Say, rather, gentle. 

I' faith ! the very dwarfs attempt to charm 
With lofty airs of puny majesty ; 
Whilst potent damsels of a portly make, 
Totter like nurselings, and demand the aid 
Of gentle sympathy. 

From all those divers modes of dire assault, 
He owns a heart of hardest adamant, 
Who shall escape to night. 

Freb. {to De Mon. who has entered during 
Rezenvelt's speech, and heard the 
greatest part of it.) Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
How pleasantly he gives his wit the rein, 
Yet guides its wild career ! 

(De Mon. is silent.) 

Rez. (smiling archly.) What, think you, 
Freberg, the same powerful spell 
Of transformation reigns o'er all to-night .' 
Or that De Monfort is a woman turn VI, 
So widely from his native self to swerve, 
As grace my folly with a smile of his ? 

De Mon. Nay, think not, Rezenvelt, there 
is no smile 
I can bestow on thee. There is a smile, 
A smile of nature too, which I can spare, 
And yet, perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for 
it. (Smiles contemptuously .) 

Rez. Not thank thee ! It were surely most 
ungrateful 



No thanks to pay for nobly giving me 
What, well we see, has cost thee so much pain. 
For nature hath her smiles of birth more pain- 
ful 
Than bitt'rest execrations. 

Freb. Th(>se idle words will lead us to dis- 
quiet : 
Forbear, forbear, my friends ! Go, Rezenvelt, 
Accept the challenge of those lovely dames. 
Who tliro' the portal come with bolder steps 
To clann your notice. 

(Enter a group of Ladies /rom the other apart- 
ment, 7cho walk sloxcly across the bottom of 
the stage, and return to it again. Rez. 
shrugs i;p his shoulders, as if unwilling to 
go-) ' 

^st GcnL (to Rez.) Behold in sable veil a 
lady comes. 
Whose noble air dotli challenge fancy's skill 
To suit it with a countenance as goodly. 
(Pointimg to Jane De Mon. who now enters in 
a thick black veil.) 

Rez. Yes, this way lies attraction. (To 
Freb.) With permission, (Going up 
to Jane.) 
Fair lady, tho' within that envious shroud 
Your beauty deigns not to enlighten us, 
We bid you welcome, and our beauties here 
Will welcome you the moie for such conceal- 
ment. 
With the permission of our noble host — 
(Taking her hand, and leading her to the front 
of the stage.) 

Jane, (to Freb.) Pardon me this presump- 
tion, courteous Sir : 
I thus appear, (pointing to her veil.) not care- 
less of respect 
Unto the generous lady of the feast. 
Beneath this veil no beauty shrouded is, 
That, now, or pain, or pleasure can bestow. 
Within the friendly cover of its shade 
I only wish, unknown, again to see 
One who, alas ! is heedless of my pain. 
Dc Mon. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that 
♦ veil, 
And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light. 
Men now all soft, and female beauty scorn, 
And mock the gentle cares which aim to 

please. 
It is most damnable I undo th}' veil, 
And think of him no more. 

Jane. I know it well, even to a proverb 
grown, 
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight : 
But he, who has, alas I forsaken me. 
Was the companion of my early days, 
My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow. 
Within our op'ning minds, with riper years, 
Tiie love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung: 
Thro' varied life our pride^ our joys were 

one ; 
At the same tale we wept : he is my brother. 
De Mon. And he forsook thee ? — No, I dare 
not curse him : 
My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGED\. 



93 



Jane. All ! do not thus distress a feeling 
heart. 
All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd 
With equal banns; thine has notwatch'd for 

thee, 
Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal 

and woe, 
As I have done for him. 

De Mon. (ragcrhj.) Ah ! has she not .' 
By heav'n ! tiie sum of all thy kindly deed ; 
Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold, 
Compar'd to that whicli I do owe her love. 
Oh pardon me ! I mean not to offend — 
I am too warm — but she of whom I speak 
Is the dear sister of my earliest love ; 
In noble, virtuous worth to none a second : 
And tho' behind those sable folds were hid 
As fair a face as ever woman own'd, 
Still would I say she is as fair as thou. 
How ofl amidst the beauty-blazing throng, 
I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told 
Her name and lineage I yet within her house, 
The virgin mother of an orphan race 
Her dying parents left, this noble woman 
Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit. 
Despising all the blandishments of love ; 
Whilst many a youth his hopeless love con- 

ceal'd, 
O, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. 
Foi-give, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting ! 
In faith ! I mean you no discourtesy. 

.Jane (Off her guard, in a soft natural time 

of roicc.) Oh no! nor do me any. 
De JiJon. What voice speaks now ^ With- 
draw, withdraw this shade ! 
For if thy face bear semblance to thy voice. 
I'll fall and worship thee. Pray ! pray undo ! 
(Puts forth his hand eagerly to snatch aicaij the 
veil, whilst she shrinks bach, and Rezenvelt 
steps hetir.een to ■prevent hhn.) 
Rez. Stand off: no hand sliall lift this sa- 
cred v-eil. 
Dc Mon. What, dost thou think De Monfort 
falFn so low, 
That there may live a man beneath heav'n's 

roof. 
Who dares to say, he shall not ? 
Rez. He lives vvlio dares to say — 
Jane, (tliroiring hack her veil, much alarm- 
ed, and rashes t'ct^cemi them.) For- 
bear, forbear ! 
(Rezenvelt, verij much struck, steps hack re- 
spectfully, and makes her a low how. De 
Monfort staiids for a. while motionless, ma- 
zing upon her, till she, looking expressively 
to him, extends her arms^ wnd he, rushing 
into them, hursts into tears. Freberg seems 
very much pleased. The company then ad- 
vancing from the inner apartment, gather 
abend them, and the Scene closes.) 

Scene II. — de monfort's apartments. 

Enter De Monkort, with a disordered air, and 
his hand pressed upon his forehead, followed 
by Jake. 

Dc Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not 
again : 



My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd. 
From all participation of its thoughts 
My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. 
Jane. What, must I, like a distant humble 

friend. 
Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturbed, 
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
I turn aside to weep .' O no ! De Monfort ! 
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
Tliy true entrusted friend I still shall be. 
Dc Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en 

to thee. 
Jane. Then, fy upon it ! fy upon it, Mon- 
fort ! 
There was a time when e"en with murder 

stain'd, 
Had it been possible that such dire deed 
Could e'er have been the crime of one so 

piteous. 
Thou wouldst have told it me. 

De Mo?}. So would I now — but ask of this 

no more. 
All other trouble but the one I feel 
I had disclos'd to thee. I pray thee spare 

me. 
It is the secret weakness of my nature. 
Jane. Then secret let it be : I urge no far- 
ther. 
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, 
So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, 
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early 

strength 
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, 
And brave the storm together — 
I have so long, as if by nature's rioht. 
Thj- bosom's inmate and adviser been, 
I thought thro' life I should have so remain'd, 
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, 

Monfort, 
A humbler station will I take by th?e: 
The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps; 
The cheerer of this home, with strangers 

sought ; 
The soother of those griefs I must not know : 
This is mine ofHce now : I ask no more. 
De Mon. Oh Jane ! thou dost constrain mc 

with thy love ! 
Would I could tell it thee ! 

Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay I'll 

stop mine ears, 
Nor from the yearnings of rffection wring 
What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, 

my brother. 
I'll stay by thee; I'll cheer tliee, comfort 

thee : 
Pursue with thee the study of some art, 
Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
To steady thought' progressive, driving forth 
All floating, Vv-ild, unhappy fantasies ; 
Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again ; 
Like one vv'ho, from dark visions of the night. 
When th' active soul within its lifeless cell 
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy 

press'd 
Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, 
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses 

heaven. 



94 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



De Moil. It will not pass away, 'twill haunt 
me still. 

Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee 
too; 
And be to it so close an adversary, 
That, though I wrestle darkling with the 

fiend, 
I shall o'ercome it. 

Dc Mon. Thou mostgen'rous woman ! 

Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — 
And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! 
He will not let me be the man I would. 

June. What say'st thou, Monfort.' Oh! 
what words are these .'' 
They have awak'd my soul to dreadful 

thoughts. 
I do beseech thee, speak ! 
(He shakes his head, and turns from her ; she 

followimr him.) 
By the aftection thou didst ever bear me ; 
By the dear mem'ry of our infant days; 
By kindred living ties, ay, and by those 
Who sleep i'the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
I do conjure thee speak ! 
(He waves her off icith his hand, and covers 

his face with the other, still turning from 

her.) 

Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
(Assuming dignity.) Then, if affection, most 

unwearied love, 
Tried early, long, and never wanting fouAd, 
O'er gen'rous man hath more authority. 
More rightful power than crown or sceptre 

give, 
I do command thee. 

{He throws himself into a chair, greatly agi- 
tated.) 
De Monfort, do not thus resist my love. 
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 

(Kneeling.) 
Alas ! my brother ! 
(De Monfort starts up, and catching her in his 

arms, raises her up, then placing her in the 

chair, kneels at her feet.) 

De Mon. Thus let him kneel who should 
the abased be. 
And at thine honour'd feet confession make. 
I'll tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise 

me. 
For in my breast a raging passion burns, 
To which thy soul no s}'uipathy will own — 
A passion which liath made my nightly couch 
A place of torment; and the light of day, 
With the gay intercourse of social man. 
Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. 

Jane ! tliou wilt despise me. 

Jane. Say not so : 

1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
No kindly heart contemns. 

De Mon. A lover, sayest thou .' 

No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
Whicli thus hath driven me forth from kindred 

peace. 
From social pleasure, from my native home. 
To be a sullen wand'rer on the earth, 
Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd. 



Jane. De Monfort, this is fiend-like, fright- 
ful, terrible ! 
What being, by th' Almighty Father form'd, 
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou, 
Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, 
Who art thyself his fellow .'' 
Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath- 

clench'd liands. 
Some sprite accurs'd within thy bosom mates 
To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy breast: 
'Tis the degrader of a noble heart : 
Curse it, and bid it part. 

De Mon. It will not part. (His hand on his 

breast.) 

I've lodg'd it here too long : 
With my first cares I felt its rankling touch ', 
I loath'd him when a boy. 
Jane. Who didst thou say .' 
De Mon. Oh ! that detested Rezenvelt ; 
E'en in our early sports, like twoyoung whelps 
Of hostile breed, instinctively reverse. 
Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge, 
And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd 
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd 
In the affected carelessness of mirth. 
Still more detestable and odious grew. 
There is no living being on this earth 
Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
With all his gay and damned merriment, 
To those, by fortune or by merit plac'd 
Above his paltry self When, low in fortune, 
He look'd upon the state of prosp'rous men. 
As nightly birds, rous'd from tlieir murky 

holes, 
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
I could endure it ; even as we bear 
Th' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm^ 
I could endure it. But when honours came, 
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride; 
Whilst flatt'ring knaves did trumpet forth his 

praise, 
And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him ; 
Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! 
It drove me frantick. — What ! what would I 

give ! 
What would I give to crush the bloated toad, 
So rankly do I loathe him ! 
Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very 

man 
Who gave to thee that life he might have ta'en? 
That life which lliou so rashly didst expose 
To aim at his .' Oh ! this is horrible ! 

Dc Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it, then? 

From all the world. 
But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 

Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolv'd 
Upon the instant to return to thee. 
Didst thou receive my letter .? 

Dc Mon.. I did ! I did ! 'twas that which 

drove me hither. 
I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 

Jane. Alas! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
I ever lefl thy house ! These kvf past months. 
These absent months, have brought us all this 

woe. 



DE MONFORT . A TRAGEDY. 



95 



Had I remain'd witli thee it had not been. 
And yet, methinks, it should not move you 

thus. 
You dar'd him to the field; both bravely fought; 
He more adroit disarm'd you ; courteously 
Return'd the forfeit sword, which, so return'd, 
You did refuse to use against him more ; 
And then, as says report, you parted friends. 
De Mon. When he disarm'd this curs'd,this 
worthless hand 
Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd 
From dev'lish pride, which now derives a bliss 
In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected 
With the vile favour of his poor forbearance; 
Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow, 
And basely bates me like a muzzled cur 
Who cannot turn again.— 
Until that day, till that accursed day, 
I knew not half the torment of this hell, 
Wliich burns within my breast. Heaven's 
lightnings blast him ! 
Jane. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! 
Lest heaven's vengeance light upon thy head, 
For this most irajjious wish. 

De MoH. Then let it light. 

Torments more fell than I have felt already 
It cannot send. To be annihilated. 
What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be 

nothing. 
Were bliss to me. compar'd to what 1 am ! 
Jane. O ! wouldst tliou kill me with these 

dreadful words .' 
De Mon. {raising his hands to heaven.) Let 
me but once upon his ruin look, 
Then close mine eyes for ever ! 
(Jane in great distress, staggers back, and 
supports herself upon the side scene. De 
Mon. alarmed, runs up to her with a softened 
voice.) 
Ha! how is this ? thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale. 
What have I done to thee .-' Alas, alas ! 
I meant not to distress thee. — O my sister I 
Jane, {shaking her head.) I cannot speak 

to thee. 
De Mon. I have kill'd thee. 

Turn, turn thee not away ! look on me still ! 
Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my 

sister ; 
Look on me yet again. 

Jane. Thou too, De Monfort, 

In better days, were wont to be my pride. 
De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in 
anyself. 
And still more wretched in the pain I give. 
O curse that villain ! that detested villain ! 
He has spread mis'ry o'er my fated life : 
He will undo us all. 
Jane. I've held my warfare through a 
troubled world, 
And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 
For then the helpmate of my toil wert thou. 
But now the wane of life comes darkly on. 
And hideous passion tears me from my heart. 
Blasting thy worth. — I cannot strive with this. 
De Mon. {affectionately.) What shall I do.' 
Jane. Call up thy noble spirit ; 

Rouse all the gen'rous energy of virtue ; 



And with the strength of heaven-endued 

man. 
Repel the hideous foe. Be great; be valiant. 
O, if thou couldst ! e'en shrouded as thou art 
In all the sad infirmities of nature. 
What a most noble creature wouldst thou be ! 

De Mon. Ay, if I could : alas ! alas ! I can- 
not. 

Jane. Thou canst, thou mayst, thou wilt. 
We shall not part till I have turn'd thy soul. 

Enter M.\nuel. 
De Mon. Ha ! some one enters. Where- 
fore comst thcu here .' 
Man. Count Freberg waits your leisure. 
De Mon. {angrily.) Be gone, be gone !-- 
I cannot see him now. 

[Exit Manuel. 
Jane. Come to my closet; free from all in- 
trusion, 
I'll school thee there ; and thou again shalt be 
My willing pupil, and my gen'rous friend. 
The noble Monfort I have lov'd so long, 
And must not, will not lose. 

De Mon. Do as thou wilt ; I will not grieve 
thee more. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 
Scene I*, — countess freeeug's dress- 
ing-room. 

Enter the Countess dispirited and out of humour, 
and throws herself into a chair : enter, by the 
opposite side, Theresa. 

Ther. Madam, I am afraid you are unwell: 
What is the matter .' does your head ache .' 

Lady {peevishly.) No, 

'Tis not my head : concern tliyself no more 
With what concerns not thee. 

Ther. Go you abroad to-night .' 

Lady. Yes, thinkest thou I'll stay and fret 
at home .'' 

Ther. Then please to say what you would 
choose to wear: — 
One of your newest robes .'' 

Lady. I hate them all. 

Ther. Surely that purple scarf became you 
well. 
With all those wreaths of richly hanging 

flowers. 
Did I not overhear them say, last night. 
As from the crowded ball-room Ladies past, 
How gay and handsome, in her costly dress, 
The Countess Freberg look'd .'' 

Lady. Didst thou o'erhear it.' 

Ther. I did, and more than this. 

Lady. Well, all are not so greatly prejudic'd; 
All do not think me like a May-day queen. 
Which peasants deck in sport. 

* This scene has been very much altered from 
what it was in the former editions of this play, 
and scene fifth of the last act will be found to be 
almost entirely changed. These alterations, 
though of no great importance, are, I hope, upon 
the whole, improvements. 



96 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



Ther. And who said this ? 

Lady. (vvt'ini{ her /nmdkerchief to her eyes.) 

E'en luy good lord, Tiiorosa. 
The)-. He said it, but in jest. He loves you 

well. 
Lady. I know as well as thou he loves me 
well. 
But what of that I he takes in me no pride : 
Elsewhere his praise and admiration go, 
And Jane De Montbrt is not mortal woman. 
Ther. The wondrous character this lady 
bears 
For worth and e.xcellence : from early youth 
The friend and mother of her younger sisters, 
Now greatly married, as I have been told, 
From her most prudent care, may well excuse 
The admiration of so good a man 
As my good master is. And then, dear Mad- 
am, 
I must confess, when I myself did hear 
How she was come thro' the rough winter's 

storm, 
To seek and comfort an unhappy brother, 
My heart beat kindly to her. 

Lady. Ay, ay, there is a charm in this I find: 
But wherefore may she not have come as well 
Through wintry storms to seek a lover too .' 
Ther. No, Madam, no, 1 could not think of 

this. 
Lady. That v.'ould reduce her in your eyes, 
mayhap, 
To v/oman's level. — Now I see my vengeance! 
I'll tell it round that she is hither come, 
Under pretence of finding out De Monfort, 
To meet with Rezenvelt. When Freberg 

hears it, 
'Twill help, I ween, to break this magick 
charm. 
T7ier. And say what is not, Madam .' 
Lady. How canst thou know that I sliall 
say what is not ? 
'Tis like enough I shall but speak the truth. 
Ther. Ah no ! tliere is— 
Lady. Well, hold thy foolish tongue. 

(Freberg's voice is heard without. Jiftcr hcsi- 

tatinir.) 
I v.'ill not see him now. [Exit. 

(Enter Freberg liy the opjjosite sldv, passing 

oil. hastily.) 
. Ther. Pardon, my lord; I fear you are in 

haste. 
Yet must 1 crave that you will give to me 
The books my Lady mention'd to you : she 
Has charg'd n^e to remind you. 

Freh. I'm in haste, {passing on.) 

Ther. Pray you, my Lord : your Countess 
wants them much ; 
The Lady Jane De Monfort ask'd them of her. 
Freh. {returning instantly.) Are they for 
her.' I knew not this before. 
I will, then, search them out inmiediately. 
There is nought good or precious in my keep- 
ing, 
That is not dearly honor'd by her use. 
Ther. My Lord, wliat would your gentle 
Countess sa}' 
If she o'erheard her own request nenrlected. 



Until supported by a name more potent .' 
Freb. Tliink'st thou she is a fool, my good 
Theresa, 
Vainly to please herself with childish thoughts 
Of matching what is matchless — Jane De 

Monfort .' 
Think'st thou she is a fool, and cannot see, 
That love and admiration often thrive 
Tho' far apart .' 

{Rc-enlcr Ladv xeitli great violence.) 
Lady. I am a fool, not to have seen full Vv'ell, 
That thy best pleasure in o'errating so 
This lofty stranger, is to humble me. 
And cast a dark'ning shadow o'er my head. 
Ay, wherefore dost thou stare ujion me thus.' 
Art thou asham'd that I have thus surpris'd 

thee .' 
Well mayst thou be so ! 

Freh. True; thou rightly say'st. 

Well may I be asham'd : not for the praise 
Which 1 have ever openly bestow'd 
On Monfort's noble sister ; but that thus, ' 
Like a poor mean and jealous listener. 
She should be found, who is Count Freberg's 
wife. 
Lady. Oil 1 am lost and ruin'd ! hated, 
scorn 'd I (pretending to faint.) 

Freh. Alas, I've been too rough ! 

(taking her hand, and kissing it tenderly.) 
My gentle love ! my ov/n, my only love ! 
See, she revives again. How art thou, love .' 
Support her to her chamber, good Theresa. 
I'll sit and watch by her. I've been too rough. 
[Exeunt Lady, supported by Freb. and Ther. 

Scene II. — -de monfort discovered 

SITTING BY A TABLE READING. AFTER 
A LITTLE TIME HE LAYS DOWN HIS 
BOOK, AND CONTINUES IN A THOUGHT- 
FUL POSTURE. 

Enter to him J \j«e Di; Monfort. 

Jane. Thanks, gentle brother. — 

(Pointing to the booh.) 
Thy willing mind has rightly been employ'd': 
Did not thy heart warm at the fair display 
Of peace and concord and forgiving love .' 
Dc Mon. I know resentment may to love be 
turn'd ; 
Tho' keen and lasting, intt> love as strong : 
And fiercest rivals in th' ensanguin'd field 
Have cast their brandish'd weapons to the 

ground , 
Joining their mailed breasts in close embrace, 
With gen'rous impulse fir'd. 1 know right 

well 
The darkest, fellest wrongs have been forgiven 
Seventy times o'er from blessed heavenly 

love : 
I've heard of things like these ; I've heard 

and wept. 
But what is this to me .' 

Jane. All, all, my brother! 

It bids thee too tliat noble prece])t learn, 
To love thine enemy. 

De Mon. Th' uplifted stroke that would a 
Tvrctch destroy, 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



97 



Gorg'd '.villi my richest spoil, stain'd with my 

blood, 
I would arrest, and cry, " Hold ! hold ! have 

mercy." 
But when the man most adverse to my nature ; 
Who e'en from childhood hath, with rude 

malevolence, 
Withheld the fair respect all paid beside, 
Turning- my very praise into derision ; 
Who galls and presses me where'er I go. 
Would claim the gen'rous feelings of my 

heart. 
Nature herself doth lift her voice aloud, 
And cries, " It is impossible ! " 

Jane, {shaking her head.) — Ah, JMonfort, 

Monfort I 
De J\lon. I can forgive th' envenomed rep- 
tile's sting, 
But hate his loathsome self. 

Jane. And canst thou do no more for love 

of heaven 't 
De Mon. Alas! I cannot now so school my 
mind 
As holy men have taught, nor search it truly : 
But this, my Jane, I'll do for love of thee ; 
And more it is than crowns could win me to, 
Or any power but thine. I'll see the man. 
Th' indignant risings of abhorrent nature ; 
The stern contraction of my scowling brows. 
That, like the plant whose closing leaves do 

shrink 
At hostile touch, still knit at his approach ; 
The crooked curving lip, by instinct taught, 
In imitation of disgustful things, 
To pout and swell, 1 strictly will repress ; 
And meet him v.'itli a tamed countenance. 
E'en as a townsman, who would live at peace. 
And pay him the respect his station claims. 
I'll crave his pardon too for all offence 
My dark and wayward temper may have done. 
Nay more, I will confess myself his debtor 
For the forbearance I have curs'd so oft : 
Life spar'd by him, more horrid than the grave 
With all its dark corruption ! This I'll do. 
Will it suffice thee .'' More than this I cannot. 
Jane. No more than this do I require of thee 
In outward act, tho' in thy heart, m}^ friend, 
I hop'd a better change, and still will hope. 
I told thee Freberg had propos'd a meeting. 
De Moil. I know it well. 
Janr. And Rezenvelt consents. 

He meets 3'ou here ; so far he shows respect. 
De Mon. Well, let it be ; the sooner past the 

better. 
Jane. I'm glad to hear you say so, for, in 
truth. 
He has propos'd for it an early hour. 
'Tis almost near his time ; I came to tell you. 
De Mon. What, comes he here so soon .-' 
shame on his speed ! 
It is not decent thus to rush upon me. 
He loves the secret pleasure he will feel 
To see me thus subdu'd. 

Jane. O say not so ! he comes with heart 

sincere. 
De Man. Could we not meet elsewhere .-■ 
from home — i' the fields, 
12 



Where other men — must I alone receive him ? 
Where isj'our agent, Freberg, and his friends. 
That I must meet him here '■! 
(Walks tip and doion very much disturbed.) 
Now didst thou say ? — how goes the hour i* — 

e'en now ! 
I would some other friend were first arriv'd. 
June. See, to thy wish come Freberg and 

his dame. 
Dc Mon. His lady too ! why comes he not 
alone ? 
Must all the world stare upon our meeting ? 

Enter Count Frkberg and his Countess. 

Freb. A happy morrow to my noble marquis 
And his most noble sister ! 

Jane. Gen'rous Freberg, 

Your face, methinks, forebodes a happy morn, 

Open and cheerful. What of Rezenvelt .'' 

Freb. I left iiim at his home, prepar'd to 

follow : 

He'll soon appear. (Tn De Monfort.) And 

now, my worthy friend. 
Give me your hand ; this happy change de- 
lights me. 
(De Monfort gives him his hand coldly, and 
they walk to the bottom, of the stage together, 
in earnest discourse, whilst Jane and the 
Countess rcviain in the front.) 
Lady. My dearest Madam, will you pardon 
me .' 
I know Count Freberg's bus'ness with De 

Monfort, 
And had a strong desire to visit you, 
So much I wish the honour of your friendship ; 
For he retains no secret from mine ear. 
Jane, (archiy.) Knowing your prudence — 
You are welcome, Madam ; 
So shall Count Freberg's lady ever be. 
(De Monfort and Fre'uerg, returning toicards 
tlic front of the stage, still engaged in dis- 
course.) 

Freb. He is indeed a man. within whose 
breast 
Firm rectitude and honour hold their seat, 
Tho' unadorned with that dignity 
Which were their fittest garb. Now. on ray 

life! 
i know no truer heart than Rezenvelt. 

De Mon. Well, Freberg, well, there needs 
not all this pains 
To garnish out his worth : let it suffice ; 
I am resolv'd I will respect the man. 
As his fair station and repute demand. 
Methinks I see not at your jolly feasts 
The youthful knight, who sung so pleasantly. 
Freb. A pleasant circumstance detains him 
hence ; 
Pleasant to those who love high gen'rous 

deeds 
Above the middle pitch of common minds ; 
And, tho' I have been sworn to secrecy, 
Yet must I tell it thee. 
This knight is near akin to Rezenvelt, 
To whom an old relation, short while dead, 
A good estate bequeathed, some leagues dis- 
tant. 



98 



DE MONFORT. A TRAGEDY. 



But Rezenvelt, now rich in fortune's store, 
Disdain'd the sordid love of further gain, 
And gen rously the rich bequest resign'd 
To this young man, blood of the same degree 
To the deceas'd, and low in fortune's gilts. 
Who is from hence to take possession of it : 
Was it not nobly done ? 

De jtton. 'Twas right and honourable. 

This morning is oppressive, warm, and heavy: 
There hangs a foggy closeness in the air ; 
Dost thou not feel it ? 

Freb. O no ! to think upon a gen'rousdeed 
Expands my soul, and makes me lightly 

breathe. 
■ De Mon. Who gives the feast to-night ? 

His name escapes me. 
You say I am invited 

Freb. Old Count Waterlan. 

In honour of your townsman's gen'rous gift, 
He spreads the board. 

De Mon. He is too old to revel with the gay. 

Freb'. But not too old is he to honour virtue. 
I shall partake of it with open soul ; 
For, on my honest faith, of living men 
I know not one, for talents, honour, worth. 
That I should rank supcriour to Rezenvelt. 

De Mon. How virtuous he hath been in 
three short days ! 

Freb. Nay, longer. Marquis ; but my friend- 
ship rests 
Upon the good report of other men. 
And that has told me much. 
(De Monfort aside, going some steps kastihj 

from Freberg, and rending his cloak with 

agitation as he goes.) 
Would he were come ! by heaven I would he 

were ! 
This fool besets me so. 
(^Suddenly correcting himself, and, jdining the 

Ladies, who have retired to the bottom of the 

stage, he speaks to Countess Freberg with 

affected cheerfulness.) 
The sprightly dames of Amberg rise by times, 
Untarnish'd with the vigils of the night. 

Lady. Praise us not rashly, 'tis not always 
so. 

De Mon. He does not rashly praise who 
praises you ; 
For he were dull indeed — 

(^Stopping short, as if he heard something.) 

Lady. How dull indeed ? 

De Mon. T should have said — It has escap'd 
me now — 

(Listening again, as if he heard something.) 

June, (toDe Mon.^ What, hear you aught? 

De Mon. (hastiti/.) "Tis nothing. 

Lady, (to De Mon. J Nay, do not let me 
lose it so, my Lord. 
Some fair one has bcwitch'd your memory. 
And robs ine of the half-form'd compliment. 

Jane. Half-utter'd praise is to the curious 
mind 
As to the eye half-veiled beauty is. 
More precious than the whole. Pray pardon 

him. 
Some one approaches. (Listening.) 

Freb. No, no, it is a servant who ascends ; 



He will not come so soon. 

De Mon. (off his guard.) 'TisRezenvelt : I 
heard his well-known foot. 
From the first staircase, mounting step by step. 
Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for dis- 
tant sound ! 
I heard him not. 
(De Monfort looks embarrassed, and is silent.) 

Enter Rezenvelt. 

(De Monfort, recovering himself, goes up to 
receive Rezenvelt, who meets him with a 
cheerful countenance.) 
De Man. (to Rez.) I am, my Lord, beholden 

to you greatly. 
This ready visit makes me much your debtor. 
Rez. Then may such debts between us, 

noble Marquis, 
Be oft incurr'd, and often paid again ! 
(To Jane.) Madam, I am devoted to your ser- 
vice. 
And ev'ry wish of yours commands my will. 
{To Countess.) Lady, good morning. {To 

Freb.) Well, my gentle friend. 
You see I have not linger'd long behind. 
Freb. No, thou art sooner than I look'd 

for thee. 
Rez. A willing heart adds feather to the 

heel, 
And makes the clown a winged Mercury. 
De Mon. Then let me say, that, with a 

grateful mind, 
I do receive these tokens of good will ; 
And must regret, that, in my wayward moods, 
I have too oft forgot the due regard 
Your rank and talents claim. 

Rez. No, no, De Monfort, 

You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit, 
Which makes me too neglectful of respect. 
Let us be friends, and think of this no more. 
Freb. Ay, let it rest with the departed 

shades 
Of things which are no more ; .whilst lovely 

concord, 
Follow'd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem, 
Your future days enrich. O heavenly friend- 
ship ! 
Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men. 
By thee conjoin'd, to great and glorious deeds ; 
As two dark clouds, when niix'd in middle 

air. 
The vivid lightning's flash, and roar sublime. 
Talk not of what is past, but future love. 
De Mon. {with dignity.) No, Freberg, no, 

it must not. (Tc* Rezenvelt. J No, my 

Lord, 
I will not oflTer you an hand of concord. 
And poorly hide the motives which constrain 

me. 
I would that, not alone, these present friends, 
But ev'ry soul in Amberg were assembled. 
That I, before them all, might here declare 
I owe my spared life to your forbearance. 
(Holding out his hand.) Take this from one 

who boasts no feeling warmth, 
But never will deceive. 
(Jane smiles upon De Monfort with great ap- 



DE MONFORT; A TRAGEDY. 



99 



probation, and Rezenvelt runs up to him 
with open arms.) 

Rez. Away -with hands ! I'll have thee to 
my breast. 
Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit ! 
De Man. {shrinking hack from him.) Nay, 
if you please, I am notsoprepar'd — 
My nature is of temp'rature too cold — - 
I pray you pardon me. (Jane's countenance 

changes.) 
But take this hand, the token of respect ; 
The token of a will inclin'd to concord ; 
The token of a mind, that bears within 
A sense impressive of the debt it owes you : 
And cursed be its power, unnerv'd its strength, 
If e'er again it shall be lifted up 
To do you any harm. 

Rez. Well, be it so, De Monfort, I'm con- 
tented ; 
I'll take thy hand, since I can have no more. 
(Carelessly.) I take of worthy men whate'er 

they give. 
Their heart I gladly take, if not, their hand ! 
If that too is withheld, a courteous word, 
Or the civility of placid looks : 
And, if e'en these are too great favours deem'd, 
'Faith, I can set me down contentedly 
With plain and homely greeting, or " God 
save ye !" 
De Mon. (aside, starting away from him 
some paces.) 
By the good light, he makes a jest of it ! 
(Jane seems greatly distressed, and Freberg 

endeavours to cheer her.) 
Freb. (to Jane.) Cheer up, my noble friend ; 

all will go well ; 
For friendship is no plant of hasty growth. 
Tho' rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow 
And gradual culture of kind intercourse 
Must bring it to perfection. 
(To the Countess.) My love, the morning, now, 

is far advanc'd ; 
Our friends elsewhere expect us ; take your 
leave. 
Lady, (to Jane.) Farewell, dear Madam, till 

the ev'ning hour. 
Freb. (to De Mon.) Good day, De Monfort. 

(To Jane.) Most devoutly yours. 
Rez. (to Freb.) Go not too fast, for I will 
follow you. 

[Exeunt FreheTg and his Lady. 
(To Jane.) the Lady Jane is yet a stranger 

here : 
She might, perhaps, in this your ancient city 
Find somewhat worth her notice. 

Jane. I thank you, Marquis, I am much 
engag'd ; 
I go not out to-day. 

Rez. Then fare ye well ! I see I cannot now 
Be the proud man who shall escort you forth. 
And show to all the world m}' proudest boast, 
The notice and respect of Jane De Monfort. 
De Mon. (aside impatiently.) He says fare- 
well, and goes not ! 
Jane, (to Rez.) You do me honour. 
Rez. Madam, adieu! (To Jane.) Good 
morning, noble Marquis. [Exit. 



(Jane and De Monfort look erprcssizehj to one 
another loithout speaking, and then Exeunt 
• sever'dly. 



ACT IV. 
Scene I. — a hall or ante-chamber, 

WITH THE FOLDING DOORS OF AN IN- 
NER APARTMENT OPEN, WHICH DIS- 
COVERS THE GUESTS RISING FROM A 
EANq,UET. 

They enter and pass over the stage and 
Exeunt; and after them enter Rezenvelt 
and Freberg. 

Freb. Alas, my Rezenvelt ! 
I vainly hop'd the hand of gentle peace, 
From this day's reconciliation sprung. 
These rude unseemly jarrings had subdu'd ; 
But I have mark'd, e'en at the social board, 
Such looks, such words, such tones, such un- 
told things, 
Too plainly told, 'twixtyouand Monfort pass, 
That I must now despair. 
Yet who could think, two minds so much re- 

fin'd. 
So near in excellence, should be remov'd. 
So far remov'd, in gen'rous sympathy ? 
Rez. Ay, far remov'd indeed ! 
Freb. And yet, methought, he made a noble 
effort. 
And with a manly plainness bravely told 
The galling debt he owes to your forbearance. 
Rez. 'Faith ! so he did, and so did I receive 
it; 
When, with spread arms, and heart e'en mov'd 

to tears, 
I frankly proffer'd him a friend's embrace : 
And, I declare, had he as such receiv'd it, 
I from that very moment had forborne 
All opposition, pride-provoking jest. 
Contemning carelessness, and all offence ; 
And had caress'd him as a worthy heart. 
From native weakness such indulgence claim- 
ing. 
But since he proudly thinks that cold respect. 
The formal tokens of his lordly favour, 
So precious are, that I would sue for them 
As fair distinction in the publick eye, 
Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all. 
And biit That I do bear that noble woman, 
His worthy, his incomparable sister. 
Such fix'd profound regard, I would expose 

him; 
And as a mighty bull, in senseless rage, 
Rous'd at the baiter's will, with wretched 

rags 
Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows, 
I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit, 
With all his deep and manly faculties, 
The scorn and laugh of fools. 

Freb. For heaven's sake, my friend, restrain 
your wrath ! 
For what has Monfort done of wrong to you, 
Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel, 



100 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



Which you confess from shght occasion rose, 
That in your breasts such dark resentment 

dwells, 
So fix'd, so hopeless ? 

Rez. O ! from our youth he has distin- 
guish "d nie 
With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust. 
For e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd 
His proud pretensions to pre-eminence; 
Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give 
That fulsome adulation of applause 
A senseless crowd bestow'd. Tho' poor in 

fortune, 
I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth : 
But when uulook'd-for late on me bestow'd 
Riches and splendour equal to his own, 
Tho' I, in trutli, despise such poor distinction, 
Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him, 
And with all men besides, I curb'd my spirit, 
And sought to soothe him. Then, with 

spiteful rage, 
FroiA small ofi'ence he rear'd a quarrel with 

rnc, 
And dar'd me to the field. The rest you 

know. 
In short, 1 still have been tli' opposing rock. 
O'er which the stream of his o'ertiowing 

pride 
Hath foam'd and fretted. See'st thou how 
it is ? 
Frch. Too well I see, and warn thee to be- 
ware. 
Such streams have oft, by swelling floods 

surchargd. 
Borne down, with sudden and impetuous 

force , 
The yet unshaken stone of opposition, 
Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing- 
course. 
I pray thee, friend, beware. 

Rez. Thou canst not mean — he will not 

murder me .'' 
Freb. What a proud heart, with such dark 
passion toss'd. 
May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive, 
I will not dare to say. 

Rez. Ha, ha I thou know'st him not. 
Full often have I mark'd it in his youth, 
And could have almost lov'd him for the 

weakness : 
He's form'd with such antipathy, by nature, 
To all infliction of corporeal pain, 
To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood. 
He cannot it he would 

Freb. Then fy upon thee ! 

It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus. 
But let us part : we'll talk of this again. 
Something approaches. — We are here too 
long. 
Rez. Well, then, to-morrow I'll attend your 
call. 
Here lies my way. Good night. [Exit. 

Enter Conrad. 

Con. Forgive, I pray, my Lord, a stranger's 
boldness. 
I have presum'd to wait your leisure here, 



Though at so late an hour. 

Freb. But who art thou ? 

Con. My name is Conrad, Sir, 
A humble suitor to your honour's goodness, 
Who is the more embolden'd to presume. 
In that De Monfort's brave and noble Mar- 
quis 
Is so muchfam'd for good and gen'rous deeds. 
Freb. You are mistaken, I am not thionan. 
Con. Then, pardon me : I thought I cou^d 
not err ; \ 

That mien so dignified, that piercing eye 
Assur'd me it was he. 

Freb. My name is not De Monfort, courte- 
ous stranger ; 
But, if you have a favour to request, 
I may, with him, perhaps, befriend your suit. 
Con. I thank your honour, but I have a 
friend 
Who will commend me to De Monfort's fa- 
vour : 
The Marquis Rezenvelt has known me long. 
Who, says report, will soon become his broth- 
er. 
Freb. If thou wouldst seek thy ruin from 
De Monfort, 
The name of Rezenvelt employ, and prosper; 
But, if aught good, use any name but his. 
Con. How may this be .'' 
Freb. I cannot now explain. 

Early to-morrow call upon Count Freberg; 
So am I call'd, each burgher knows my 

house. 
And there instruct me how to do you service. 
Good-night. [Exit. 

Con. [alone.) Well, this mistake may be of 
service to me : 
And yet my bus'ness I will not unfold 
To this mild, ready, promise-making cour- 
tier ; 
I've been by such too oftdeceiv'd already. 
But if such violent enmity' exists 
Between De Monfort and this Rezenvelt, 
He'll prove my advocate by opposition. 
For if De Monfort would reject my suit, 
Being the man whom Rezenvelt esteems, 
Being the man he hates, a cord as strong. 
Will he not favour me .■■ I'll think of this. 

[Exit. 

Scene II.— a lower apartmemt in Je- 
rome's HOUSE, WITH a wide FOLDING 
GLASS DOOR, LOOKING INTO A GARDEN, 
WHERE THE TREES AND SHRUBS ARE 
BROWN AND LEAFLESS. 

Enter De Monkort with a thoughtful frflwning 
aspect, and paces slowly across the stage, 
Jerome following behind him, with a timid 
step. De Monfort hearing him, turns suddenly 
about. 

De Mon. (tnigrihj.) Who follows me to this 

sequester'd room .' 
Jer. I have presum'd, my Lord. 'Tis some- 
what late : 
I am inform'd you eat at home to-night; 
Here is a list of all the dainty fare 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



101 



My busy search has found; please to peruse 
it. 
De Moil. Leave me : begone ! Put hem- 
lock in thy soup, 
Or deadly night-shade, or rank hellebore, 
And 1 will moss upon it. 

Jer. Heaven forbid ! 

Your honour's life is all too precious, sure — 
De Men. (sternly.) Did I not say begone ? 
Jer. Pardon, my Lord, Fm old, and oft for- 
get. [Exit. 
De Moil, (looting after him, as if his heart 
smote him.) Why will they thus 
mistime their foolish zeal, 
That I must be so stern .'' 
O, that I were upon some desert coast ! 
Where howling tempests and the lashing tide 
Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet ; 
As the storm-beaten trav'ller droops his head, 
In heavy, dull, lethargick weariness. 
And, 'midst the roar of jarring elements, 
Sleeps to awake no more. 
What am I grown ? all things are hateful to 
me. 

Enter Manuel- 

(Stamping with his foot.) Who bids thee 

break upon my privacy .'' 
Man. Nay, good my Lord! 1 heard you 

speak aloud. 
And dreamt not, surely, that you were alone. 
De Mon. What, dost thovi watch, and pin 

thine ears to holes. 
To catch those exclamations of the soul. 
Which heaven alone should hear.'' Who 

iiir'd tJiec, pray .-' 
Who basely hir'd thee for a task like this .' 
Man. My Lord, I cannot hold. For fifteen 

years, 
Long- troubled jears, I have your servant been. 
Nor hatli the proudest lord in all the realm, 
With firmer, with more honourable faith 
His sovereign serv'd, than I have served you ; 
But if my honesty is doubted now, 
Let him who is more faithful take my place. 
And serve you better. 

De Mon. Well, be it as thou wilt. Away 

with thee ! 
Thy loud-mouth"d boasting is no rule for me 
To judge thy merit by. 

Enter Jerome hastily, and pulls Manuel away. 

Jer. Come, Manuel, come awa^^; thou art 
not wise. 
The stranger must depart and come again, 
For now his honour will not be disturb'd. 

[Exit Manuel sulkily. 
De Man. A stranger said'st thou ? 

(Drops his ha ndkerchief) 
Jer. I did, good Sir, but he sliall go away ; 
You shall not be disturb'd. 

(Stooping to lift the handkerchief.) 

You have dropp'd somewhat. 

De Mon. (preventing him.) Nay, do not 

stoop, my friend ! 1 pray thee not ! 

Thou art too old to stoop. — 

Fm much indebted to thee. — Take this ring — 



I love thee better than I seem to do. 
I pray thee do it — thank me not. — What 
stranger .'' 
Jer. A man who does most earnestly entreat 
To see your honour ; but I know him not. 
Dc Mon. Then let him enter. 

[Exit Jerome. 

A pause. Enter Conrad. 

De Mon. You are the stranger who would 
speak with me.' 

Con. I am so far unfortunate, my Lord, 
That, though my fortune on your favour hangs, 
I am to you a stranger. 

De Mon. How may tliis be ? What can I do 
for you ^ 

Con. Since thus your Lordship does so 
frankly ask, 
The tiresome preface of apology 
I will forbear, and tell my tale at once. — 
In plodding drudgery I've spent my youth, 
A careful penman in another's office ; 
And now, my master and cuiployer dead, 
They seek to set a stripling oer my head. 
And leave me on to drudge, e'en to old age, 
Because I have no friend to take my part. 
It is an office in your native town. 
For I am come from thence, and lam told 
You can procure it for me. Thus, my Lord, 
From the repute of goodness which you bear, 
I have presum'd to beg. 

De Mon. They have befool'd thee with a 
false report. 

Con. Alas I 1 see it is in vain to plead. 
Your mind is prepossess'd against a wretch, 
Who has, unfortunately for his weal. 
Offended the revengeful Rezenvelt. 

De Mon. What dost thou Say .' 

Con. What I, perhaps, had better leave un- 
said. 
Who will believe my wrongs if I complain .' 
I am a stranger, Rezenvelt my foe. 
Who will believe my wrongs .' 

De Mon. (eagerly catcldng hint by the coat.) 
I will believe them ! 
Though they were base as basest, vilest deeds. 
In ancient record told, I would believe them ! 
Let not t!ie smallest atom of un worthiness 
That he has put upon thee be conceal'd. 
Speak boldly, tell it all ; for, by the light ! 
Fll be thy friend, Fll be thy warmest friend, 
If he has done thee wrong. 

Con. Nay, pardon me, it were net well ad- 
vis'd. 
If I should speak so freely of the man 
Who will so soon your nearest kinsman be. 

De Mon. What canst thou mean by this .' 

Con. That Marquis Rezenvelt 

Has pledgd his faith unto your noble sister, 
And soon will be the husband of her choice. 
So 1 am told, and so the world believes. 

De Mon. 'Tis false 1 'tis basely fiilse I 
What wretch could drop from his envenom'd 

tongue 
A tale so damn'd .' — It chokes m)' breath — 
(stamping u-ith his foot.) "What wretch did 
tell it thee .' 



102 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



Con. Nay, every one with whom I have 
convers'd 
Has held the same discourse. I judge it not. 
But you, my Lord, who with the lady dwell. 
You best can tell what Jier deportment speaks ; 
Whether her conduct and unguarded words 
Belie such rumour. 

(De Monfort pauses, staggers backwards, and 

sinks into a chair ; then starting up hastily.) 

De Man. Where am I now .'' 'midst all the 

cursed thouglits. 

That on my soul like stinging scorpions 

prey'd. 

This never came before Oh, if it be ! 

The thought will drive me mad. — Was it for 

this 
She urg'd her warm request on bended knee.' 
Alas ! 1 wept, and thought of sister's love. 
No damned love like this. 
Fell devil ! 'tis hell itself has lent thee aid 
To work such sorcery ! (Pauses.) I'll not be- 
lieve it, 
I must have proof clear as the noon-day sun 
For such foul charge as this ! Who waits with- 
out.' 
(Paces tip and down, furiously agitated.) 
Con. (aside.) What have I done .' I've car- 
ried this too far. 
I've rous'd a fierce ungovernable madman. 
Enter Jkrome. 
Dc Mon. (in a loud angry voice.) Where 
did she go, at such an early hour, 
And with such slight attendance .' 
Jer. Of whom inquires your honour .' 
Dc Mon. Why, of your lady. Said I not 

my sister .' 
Jer. The La^y Jane, your sister ,' 
De Mon. (in a. faltering voice.) Yes, I did 

call her so. 
Jer. In truth, I cannot tell you where she 
went. 
E'en now, from the short beechen walk hard 

by, . 

I saw her through the garden-gate return. 
The Marquis Rezenvelt, and Freberg's Count- 
ess, 
Are in her company. This way they come, 
As being nearer to the back apartments ; 
But I shall stop them if it be your will, 
And bid them enter here. 

De Mon. No, stop them not. I will remain 
unseen, 
And mark them as they pass. Draw back a 

little. 
(Cox\TdiA seems alar med, and steals off unnoticed. 
De Monfort grasps Jerome tightly by the 
hand, and draieing back 2cith him tico or 
three steps, not to be seen from the garden, 
waits in silence, with his eyes fixed on the 
glass door.) 

De Mon. I hear their footsteps on the grat- 
ing sand : 
How like the croaking of a carrion bird. 
That hateful voice sounds to the distant ear ! 
And now she speaks — her voice sounds cheer- 

ly too — 
Curs'd be their mirth ! — 



Now, now, they come ; keep closer still ! keep 
steady ! 
(Taking hold of Jerome icith both hands.) 

Jer. My Lord, you tremble much. 

De Mon. What, do I shake ? 

Jer. You do, in truth, and your teeth chat- 
ter too. 

De Mon. See ! see they come ! he strutting 
by her side. 
(Jane, Rezenvelt, «nfZ Countess Frcberg ap- 
pear through the glass door, pursuing their 

way up a short walk leading to the other 

wing of the house. ) 
See, his audacious face he turns to hers ; 
Utt'ring with confidence some nauseous jest. 
And she endures it too — Oh ! this looks vili ly! 
Ha ! mark that courteous motion of his arm — 
What does he mean .' — he dares not take her 

hand ! 
(Pauses and looks eagerly.) By heaven and 

hell he does ! 
(Letting go his hold of Jerome, he throws out 

his hands vehemently, and thereby pushes him 

against the scene. ) 

Jer. Oh ! I am stunn'd ! my head is crack'd 
in twain : 
Your honour does forget how old I am. 

Dc Mon. Well, well, the wall is hai-der than 
I wist. 
Begone, and whine within. 
[Exit Jerome, icil.h a sad rueful countenance. 
(De Monfort comes foricard to the front of the 

stage, and makes a long pause, expressive of 

great agony of mind.) • 
It must be so : each passing circumstance ; 
Her hasty journey here ; her keen distress 
Whene'er my soul's abhorrence I expross'd ; 
Ay, and that damned reconciliation. 
With tears extorted from me : Oh. too well ! 
All, all too well bespeak the shameful tale. 
I sliould have thought of heaven and hell 

conjoin'd. 
The morning star mixed with infernal fire, 
Ere I had thought of this — 
Hell's blackest magick, in the midnight hour, 
With horrid spells and incantation dire, 
Such combination opposite, unseemly. 
Of fair and loathsome, excellent and base. 
Did ne'er produce — But every thing is possi- 
ble, 
So as it may my misery enhance ! 
Oh ! I did love her with such pride of soul ! 
When other men, in gay pursuit of love. 
Each beauty follow'd, by her side I stay'd ; 
Far prouder of a brother's station there. 
Than all the favours favour'd lovers boast. 
We quarrel'd once, and when I could no more 
The alter'd coldness of her eye endure, 
1 slipp'd o'tip-toe to her chamber-door ; 
And when she ask'd who gently knock'd — 

Oh! oh! 
Who could have thought of this .' 
(Throw i himself into a chair, covers his face 

loith his hand, and bursts into tears. After 

some time he starts up from his seat furiously.) 
Hells direst torment seize the infernal villain! 
Detested of mj soul ! I will have vengeance ! 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



103 



I'll crush thy swelling pride — I'll still thy 

vauntin<T — 
I'll do a deed of blood ! — Why shrink I thus ? 
If, by some spell or magick sympathy, 
Piercing the lifeless figure on that wall 
Could pierce his bosom too,, would I not cast 

it ? ( Throicing a dagger against the 

wall.) 
Shall groans and blood affright me ? No, I'll 

do it. 
Tho' gasping life beneath my pressure heav'd, 
And my soul shudder'd at the horrid brink, 
I would not flinch. — Fye, this recoiling nature I 

that his sever'd limbs were strew'd in air, 
So as I saw it not ! 

Enter Rezenvelt behind from the glass door. 
De Moneort turns round, and on seeing him 
starts back, then drawing his sword, rushes 
furiously upon him. 

Detested robber ! now all forms are over; 
Now open villany, now open hate I 
Defend thy life ! 

Rez. De Monfort, thou art mad. 

De Mon. Speak not, but draw. Now for thy 
hated life ! 
{They fight : Rezenvelt parries his thrusts with 

great skill, avid at last disarms him.) 
Then take my life, black fiend, for hell assists 
thee. 

Rez. No, Monfort, but I'll take away your 
sword. 
Not as a mark of disrespect to you, 
But for your safety. By to-morrow's eve 
I'll call on you myself and give it back; 
And tlien, if I am charg'd with any wrong, 
I'll justify myself. Farewell, strange man ! 

[Exit. 
(De Monfort stands for some time qxiite mo- 
tionless, like one slupified. Enters to him a 

Servant : he starts.) 

De Mon. Ha ! who art thou .'' 

Ser. 'Tis I, an' please 5'our honour. 

De Mon. {staring wildly at him.) Who art 
thou ? 

Ser. Your servant Jacques. 

De Mon. Indeed I knew thee not. 

Leave me, and when Rezenvelt is gone. 
Return and let me know. 

Ser. He's gone already. 

De Mon. How ! is he gone so soon .' 

Ser. His servant told me. 

He was in haste to go ; as night comes on. 
And at the ev'ning hour he purposes 
To visit some old friend, whose lonely man- 
sion 
Stands a short mile beyond the farther wood. 
In which a convent is of holy Nuns 
Who chaunt this night a requiem to the soul 
Of a departed sister. For so well 
He loves such solemn musick, he has order'd 
His horses onward by the usual road. 
Meaning on foot to cross the wood alone. 
So says his knave. Good may it do him, sooth ! 

1 would not walk thro' those wild dells alone 
For all his wealth.- For there, as I have heard. 
Foul murders have been done, and ravens 

scream ; 



And things unearthly, stalking through the 

night, 
Have scar'd tlie lonely trav'ller from his wits. 
(De Monfort stands fixed in thought.) 
I've ta'en your mare, an' please you, from her 

field, 
And wait your farther orders. 

(De Monfort heeds hirn not.) 
Her hoofs are sound, and where tlie saddle 

gall'd. 

Begins to mend. What fuirther must be done ? 

(De Monfort still heeds him. not.) 

His honour heeds me not. Why should I stay .' 

De Mon. {eagerly, as he is going.) He goes 

alone, saidst thou.'' 
Ser. His servant told me so. 
De Mon. And at what hour .' 

Ser. He 'parts from Amberg by the fall of 
eve. 
Save you, my Lord ! how chang'd your count'- 

nance is ! 
Are you not well .'' 

De Mon. Yes, I am well : begone, 

And wait my orders by the city wall : 
I'll that way bend, and speak to thee again. 

[Exit Servant. 

(De Monfort walks rapidly two or three times 

across the stage ; then seizes his daggerfrom 

the jcall ; looks steadfastly at its point, and 

Exit hastily.) 

Scene III. — moonlight, a wild path 

IN A WOOD, SHADED WITH TREES. 

Enter De Monfort, with a strong expression 
of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, 
looking behind him, and bending his ear to the 
ground, as if he listened to something. 
De Mon. How hollow groans the earth be- 
neath my tread ! 
Is there an echo here ? Methinks it sounds 
As tho' some heavy footstep follow'd me. 
1 will advance no farther. 
Deep settled shadows rest across the path, 
And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this 

spot. 
O that a tenfold gloom did cover it ! 
That 'midst the murky darkness I might 

strike ; 
As in the wild confusion of a dream, 
Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass. 
As tho' they pass'd not ; nor impress the mind 
With the fix'd clearness of reality. 

{Jin Old is heard screaming near him.) 
{Starting.) What sound is that.'' 

{Listens, and the oicl cries again.) 
It is the screech-owl's cry. 
Foul bird of night ! v/hat spirit guides thee 

here ? 
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of hor- 

rour .' 
I've heard of this. {Pauses and listens.) 

How those fall'n leaves so rustle on the path, 
With whisp'ringnoise,as tho' the earth around 

me 
Did utter secret things ! 
The distant river too, bears to mine ear 
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night : 



104 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



Thovi !irt not silent ; many tongues liast thou. 
A distant gath'ring blast sounds thro' the 

wood. 
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o'er the sky : 
O ! that a storm would rise, a raging storm; 
Amidst the roar of warring elements 
I'd lift my hand and strike ! but this pale liglit, 
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing, 
Is terrible, (titartiiig.) Footsteps are near — 
He comes ! he comes ! I'll watch him farther 



on — 
1 cannot do it liere. 



[Exi 



Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly 
from the bottom of the stage : as he advances 
to the h-ont, the owl screams, he stops and lis- 
tens, and the owl screams again. 

Rez. Ha! does the night-bird greet me on 

my way ? 
IIow,- much his hooting is in harmony 
\WlJi such a scer'C as this ! I like it well. 
Oft vvIru a boy, at the still twilight hour, 
I've leant my buck against some knotted oak, 
And loudly mimick'd him, till to my call 
He answer would return, and, thro' the gloom, 
We friendly converse held. 
Between me and the star-bespangled sk\-. 
Those aged oaks their crossing branches v^'ave. 
And thro' them looks the pale and placid 

moon. 
How like a crocodile, or winged snake, 
Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length ! 
And now transformed by the passing wind, 
Metbinks it seems a flying Pegasus. 
Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue 
Come swiftly after. — 
A hollow murm'ring wind sounds thro' the 

trees ; 
I hear it from afar ; this bodes a storm. 
I must not linger here — 

(.J bclL heard at some distance ) 
The con\'cnt bell. 
'Tis distant still : it tells their hour of prayer. 
It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze, 
That, to a fearful super.stitious mind. 
In such a scene, would like a death-knell 

come. [Exit. 



ACT V . 
Scene I. — the inside of a convent 

CHAPEL, OF OLD GOTHIC ARCHITEC- 
TURE, ALMOST dark: TWO TORCHES 
ONLY ARE SEEN AT A DISTANCE, 
BURNING OVER A NEWLY-COVERED* 
GRAVE. LIGHTNING IS SEEN FLASHING 
THROUGH THE WINDOWS, AND THUN- 
DER HEARD, WITH THE SOUND OF 
WIND BEATING UPON THE BUILDING. 



*1 have put nho\e newly-covered instead of 
ncio-made grave, as it stands in the former edi- 
tions, because I wisli not to give the idea of a 
funeral procession, but merely that of a hymn or 
requiem sung over the grave of a person who has 
been recently buried. 



Enter two Mo.nks. 

• 1st Monk. The storm increases: liark how 

dismally 
It howls along the cloisters. How goes time i' 
2d Monk. It is the hour : I hear them near 
at hand : 
And when the solemn requiem has been sung 
For the departed sister, we'll retire. 
Yet, should this tempest still more violent 

grow, 
We'll beg a friendly shelter till the morn. 
1st Monk. See, the procession enters : let 
us join. 
(The ortran strikes up a solemn prelude.) 
Enter a procession of Nuns, with the Abbess, 
bearing torches. After compassing the grave 
twice, and remaining there some time, the 
organ plays a grand dirge, whilst they stand 
round the grave. 

SONG BY THE NUNS. 

Departed soul, whose poor remains 
This ballow'd lowly grave contains ; 
Whose passing storm of life is o'er, 
Whose pains and sorrows are no more ; 
Bless'd be thou with the bless'd abuve ! 
Where all is joy, and purity, and love. 

Let HIM, in might and mercy dread, 

Lord of the living and the dead ; 

In whom the stars of heav'n rejoice, 

And the ocean lifts its voice j 

'I'hy spirit, purified, to glory raise, 

To sing with holy saints his everlasting praise '. 

Departed soul, who in this earthly scene 
Hast our lowly sister been, 
Swift be thy way to where the blessed dwell ! 
Until we meet thee there, farewell ! farewell ! 

Enter a young Pensioner, witli a wild terrified 
look, her hair and dress all scattered, and 
rushes forward amongst them. 

^^bb. Why com'st thou here, with such dis- 
ordcr'd looks, 
To break upon our sad solemnity .-' 

Pen. Oh ! I did hear thro' the receding 

blast. 

Such horrid pries ! they made ni}' blood run 

chill. 

Jihb. 'Tis but the varied voices of the storm, 

Which many times will sound like distant 

screams : 
It has deceiv'd thee. 

Pea. O no, for twice it call'd, so loudly 
call'd, 
With horrid strcngtii, bej'ond the pitcji of na- 
ture ; 
And Murder ! ifiurder ! was the dreadful cry. 
A third time it rcturn'd with feeble strength, 
But o'the sudden ceas'd, as tho' the words 
Were smother'd rudely in tho grappled throat, 
.\nd all was still again, save the wild blast 
Which at a distance growl'd — 
Oh ! it will never from my mind depart ! 
That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd : 
For then, so near, some horrid deed was done, 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



105 



And none to rescue. 

Mb. Where didst thou hear it ? 
Pen. In the higher cells, 

As now a window, open'd by the storm, 
I did attempt to close. 

\st Monk. 1 wish our brother Bernard were 
arriv'd ; 
He is upon his way. 

Mb. Be not alarm'd ; it still may be decep- 
tion. 
'Tis meet we finish our solemnity, 
Nor show neglect unto the honour'd dead. 
{Gives a sign, and the organ plays again : just 
as it ceases a loud knocking is heard without.) 
Mb. Ha ! who may this be .'' hush ! 

(knocking heard again.) 
'id Monk. It is the knock of one in furious 
haste. 
Hush ! hush ! What footsteps come .' Ha ! 
brother Bernard. 

Enter Bernard bearing a lantern. 

\st Monk. See, what a look he wears of 
stiffen'd fear ! 
Where hast thou been, good brother .-* 

Bern. I've seen a horrid sight ! 
{Ml gathering round him and speaking at once.) 
What hast thou seen .'' 
Bern. As on I hasten'd, bearing thus my 
light, 
Across the path, not fifty paces off, 
I saw a murder'd corse, stretch'd on his back, 
Sraear'd with new blood, as tho' but newly 
slain. 
Mb. A man or woman was't ? 
Bern. A man, a man ! 

Mb. Didst thou examine if within its breast 
There yet were lodg'd some small remains of 

life.' 
Was it quite dead.' 

Bern. Nought in the grave is deader. 

I look'd but once, yet life did never lodge 
In any form so laid. — 
A chilly horrour seiz'd me, and I fled. 

1st Monk. And does the face seem all un- 
known to thee ? 
Bern. The face ! I would not on the face 
have look'd 
For e'en a kingdom's wealth, for all the world! 

no ! the bloody neck, the bloody neck ! 
(Shaking his head and shuddering icith hor- 
rour. Loud knocking heard without.) 

Sist. Good mercy ! who comes next .' 
Bern. Not far behind 

1 left our brother Thomas on the road ; 
But then he did repent him as he went, 
And threaten'd to return. 

2d Monk. See, here he comes. 

Enter Brother Thomas, with a wild terrified 
look. 

1st Monk. How wild he looks ! 

Bern, {going up to him eagerly.) What, 

hast thou seen it too .' 
Thorn. Yes, yes ! it glar'd upon me as it 

pass'd. 
Bern. What glar'd upon thee .' 

13 



{Ml gathering round Thomas, and speaking at 
once.) 

O ! what hast thou seen ? 
Thom. As, striving with the blast, 1 onward 
came. 
Turning my feeble lantern from the wind, 
Its light upon a dreadful visage gleam'd. 
Which paus'dand look'd upon me asit pass'd. 
But such a look, such wildness of despair, 
Such horrour -straind features, never yet 
Did earthly visage show. I shrunk and shud- 

der'd. 
If a damn'd spirit may to earth return, 
I've seen it. 

Bern. Was there any blood upon it .' 
Thom. Nay, as it pass'd, I did not see its 
form ; 
Nought but the horrid face. 
Bern. It is the murderer. 
1st Monk. What way went it.'' 

Thom. I durst not look till I had pass'd it 
far. 
Then turning round, upon the rising bank, 
I saw, between me and the paly skv. 
A dusky form, tossing and agitated. 
I stopp'd to mark it ; but, in truth, I found 
'Twas but a sapling bending to the wind. 
And so I onward hied, and look'd no more. 
1st Monk. But we must look to't ; we must 
follow it : 
Our duty so commands. (To 2c? Monk.) Will 

you go, brother ? 
(To Bernard.) And you; good Bernard.' 
Ber7i. If I needs must go. 

1st Monk. Come, we must all go. 
Mb. Heaven be with you, then I 

[Exeunt Monks. 
Pen. Amen ! amen ! Good heaven be with 
us all ! 

what a dreadful night I 

Mb. Daughters, retire ; peace to the peace- 
ful dead ! 
Our solemn ceremony now is finish'd. 

[Exeunt. 
Scene II. — a large room in the con- 
vent, VERY BARK. 

Enter the Abbess, Young Pensioner bearing a 
light, and several Nuns ; she sets down the 
light on a table at the bottom of the stage, so 
that the room is still very gloomy. 

Mb. They have been longer absent than I 
thought ; 

1 fear he has escap'd them. 

1st JVun. Heaven forbid ! 

Pen. No, no, found out foul murder ever is, 
And the foul murd'rer too. 

2d JVun. The good Saint Francis will di- 
rect their search ; 
The blood so near this holy convent shed 
For threefold vengeance calls. 

Mb. I hear a noise within the inner court — 
They are return'd ; {listening ;) and Bernard's- 

voice I hear : 
They are return'd. 

Pen. Why do 1 tremble so ? 

It is not I who ought to tremble thus. 



106 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



2d J\nn. I hear them at the door. 
Bern, {without.) Open the door, I pray 
thee, brother Tliomas; 
I cannot now unliand tlie prisoner. 
{All speak togct/icr, shrinking back from the 
door, and staring upon one (mother.) 
He is with them ! 
(Jl folding door at the hotloTn of the stage is 
opened, and enter Bernard, Thomas, and 
the other tuw Monks, carrying lanterns in 
their hands, and bringing in De Monfort. 
They are likeurise foUvxncd by other Monks. 
As they lead foricard De Monfort, the light 
is turned away, so that he is seen obscurely ; 
hut when they come to the front of the stage, 
they turn the light side of their lanterns on 
him at once, and his face is seen in all the 
strengthened horronr of despair, with his 
hands and clothes bloody. 
(Abbess and Nuns speak at once, and start 
back.) Holy saints be with us ! 
Bern, {to Mb.) Behold the man of blood ! 
Abb. of misery too; I cannot look upon him. 
Bern, {to JVuns.) Nay, holy sisters, turn 
not thus away. 
Speak to him, if, perchance, he will regard 

you: 
For from his mouth we have no utt'r^nce 

heard. 
Save one deep groan and smother'd exclama- 
tion. 
When first we seiz'd him. 

Abb. {to De Mon.) Most miserable man, 

how art thou thus .'' (Pauses.) 

Thy tongue is silent, but those bloody hands 

Do witness horrid things. What is thy 

name .-' 

De Mon. {roused, looks steadfastly at the 

Abbess for some time, then speaking 

in a short hurried voice.) I have no 

name. 

Abb. {to Bern.) Do it thyself; I'll speak to 

him no more. 
Pen. O holy saints ! that this should be the 
man 
Who did against his fellow lift the stroke, 
Whilst he so loudly call'd. — 
Still in my ears it rings : O murder ! murder ! 
De Mon. {starting^ He Calls again ! 
Pen. No, he did call, but now his voice is 
still'd. 
'Tis past. 

De Mon. 'Tis past. 

Pen. Yes, it is past ! art thou not he who 
did it ? 
(De Mcnfort utters a deep groan, and is sup- 
ported from falling by the Monks. A noise 
is heard vuthout.) 

Abb. What noise is this of heavy lumb'ring 
steps. 
Like men who with a weighty burden come .'' 
Bern. It is the body : I have orders given 
That here it should be laid. 
(Enter men, bearing the body of Rezenvelt, co- 
vered with a white cloth, and set it down in 
the middle of the room : they then uncover it. 
De Monfort stands fixed and motionless 



with horrour, only that a sudden shivering 
scemB to pass over him when they uncover 
the corpse. The Abbess and Nuns shrink 
back and retire to some distance, all the rest 
fixing their eyes steadfastly upon De Mon- 
fort. A long pause.) 

Bern, {to De Mon.) See'sl thou that life- 
less corpse, those bloody wounds ? 
See how he lies, who but so shortly since 
A living creature was, with all the powers 
Of sense, and motion, and humanity ! 
Oh ! what a heart had he who did this deed ! 
Isl Monk, {looking at the body.) How hard 
those teeth against the lips are 
press'd. 
As tho' he struggled still ! 

2d Monk. The hands, too, clench'd : the 
last efforts of nature. 
CDe Monfort still stands motionless. Broth- 
er Thomas then goes to the body, arid raising 
up the head a little, turns it towards De 

Monfort.) 
Thorn. Know'st thou this ghastly face .'' 
De Mon. (putting his hands before his face 
in violent perturbation.) Oh do not ! 
do not ! Veil it from my sight ! 
Put me to any agony but this ! 

Thorn. Ha ! dost thou then confess the 
dreadful deed .'' 
Hast thou against the laws of awful heav'n 
Such horrid murder done .'' What fiend could 

tempt thee .'' 
{Pauses and looks steadfastly at De Monfort.) 
De Mon. I hear thy words, but do not hear 
their sense — 
Hast thou not covered it.' 

Bern, {to Thom.) Forbear, my brother, for 
thou see'st right well 
He is not in a state to answer thee. 
Let us retire and leave him for a while. 
These windows are with iron grated o'er ; 
He is secur'd, and other duty calls. 
Thoni. Then let it be. 

Bern, {to Monks, <^c.) Come, let us all de- 
part. 
(Exeunt Abbess and Nnns, followed by the 
Monks. One Monk lingering a lit- 
tle behind.) 
De Mon. All goiie ! {Perceiving the Monk.) 

O stay thou here ! 
Monk. It must not be. 

De Mon. I'll give thee gold ; I'll make 
thee rich in gold. 
If thou wilt stay e'en but a little while. 
Monk. I must not, must not stay. 
De Mon. I do conjure thee I 

Monk. I dare not stay with thee. {Going.) 
De Mon. And wilt thou go .' 

(Catching hold of him eagerly.) 
O ! throw thy cloak upon this grizly form ! 
The unclos'd eyes do stare upon mc st>ll. 
O do not leave me thus ! 

[Monk covers the body, and Exit. 
De Mon. {alone, looking at the covered body, 
but at a distance.) Alone with thee! 
but thou art nothing now. 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



107 



'Tis done, 'tis number'd with the things o'er- 

past ; 
Would, would it were to come ! — ' 
What fated end, what darkly gathering cloud 
Will close on all this horrour ? 

that dire njjidness would unloose my 

thoughts, 

And fill my mind with wildest fantasies, 

Dark, restless, terrible! aught, aught but this! 
(Paiises and shudders .) 

How with convulsive life he heav'd beneath 
me, 

E'en with the death's wound gor'd ! O hor- 
rid, horrid ! 

Me thinks I feel him still. — What sound is 
that ? 

1 heard a smother'd groan. — It is impossible ! 

{Looking steadfastly at the body.) 
It moves ! it moves ! the cloth doth heave and 

swell. 
It moves again ! I cannot suffer this — 
Whate'er it be, I will uncover it. 
{Runs to the corpse, and tears off the cloth in 

despair.) 
All still beneath. 

Nought is there here but fix'd and grizly death. 
How sternly fixed ! Oh ! those glazed eyes I 
They look upon me still. 

(Shrinks back with horronr.) 
Come, madness ! come unto me senseless 

death ! 
I cannot suffer this ! Here, roc'sy wall. 
Scatter these brains, or dull them ! 
{Runs furiously , and , dashing his head against 
the wall, falls upon the floor.) 

Enter two Monks, hastily. 

1st Monk. See ; wretched man, he hath de- 
stroyed himself. 

2d Monk. He does but faint. Let us re- 
move him hence. 

1st Monk. We did not well to leave him 
here alone. 

2d Monk. Come, let us bear him to the open 
air. [Exeunt, bearing out De Mon- 
fort. 

Scene III. — before the gates of the 

CONVENT. 

Enter Jane De Monfort, Freberg, and Man- 
uel. As they are proceeding towards -the 
gate, Jane stops short and shrinks back. 

Freh. Ha ! wherefore .-' has a sudden ill- 
ness seiz'd thee .-' 
Jane. No, no, my friend. — And yet I'm very 
faint — 
I dread to enter here. 

Man. Ay, so I thought : 

For, when between the trees, that abbey 

tower 
First shew'd its top, I saw your count'nance 

change. 
But breathe a little here ; I'll go before. 
And make inquiry at the nearest gate. 
Freb. Do so, good Manuel. 

(Manuel g-oes and knocks at the gate.) 



Courage, dear Madam : all may yet be well. 
Rezenvelt's servant, frigiiien'd with the 

storm. 
And seeing that his master join'd him not, 
As by appointment, at the forest's edge, 
Might be alarm'd, and give too ready ear 
To an unfounded rumour. 
He saw it not ; he came not here himself. 
Jane, {looking eagerly to the gate, cohere 
Miinael talks with the Porter.) Ha! 
see, he talks with some one earnestly. 
And see'st thou not that motion of his hands ? 
He stands like one who hears a horrid tale. 
Almighty God ! 

(Manuel goes into the convent.) 
He comes not back ; he enters. 
Freb. Bear up, my noble friend. 
Jane. I will, I will ! But tliis suspense is 
dreadful. 
(j3 long pause. Manuel re-enters from the 
convent, and comes forward slowly with a 
sad countenance.) 
Is this the face of one who bears good tidings .' 
O God ! his face doth tell the horrid fact ; 
There is nought doubtful here. 

Freb. How is it, Manuel .' 

Man. I've seen him through a crevice in his 

door: 

It is indeed my master. {Biirsting into tears.) 

{Jane faints, and is supported by Freberg. — 

Enter Abess and several Nuns from the convent , 

who gather about her, and apply remedies. She 

recovers. 

1st JVun. The life returns again. 
2d JVun. Yes, she revives. 

Mb. {to Freb.) Let me entreat this noble 
lady's leave 
To lend her in. She seems in great distress ! 
We would with holy kindness soothe her woe, 
And do by her the deeds of christian love. 
Freb. Madam, your goodness has my grate- 
ful thanks. [Exeunt, 
supporting Jane into the convent. 

Scene IV. — de monfort is discover- 
ed SITTING IN A thoughtful POS- 
TURE. HE REMAINS SO FOR SOME 
TIME. HIS FACE AFTERWARDS BEGINS 
TO APPEAR AGITATED, LIKE ONE WHOSE 
MIND IS HARROWED WITH THE SEVER- 
EST thoughts; THEN, STARTING 
FROM HIS SEAT, HE CLASPS HIS HANDS 
TOGETHER, AND HOLDS THEM UP TO 
HEAVEN. 

De Mon. O that I ne'er had known the light 
of day ! 
That filmy darkness on mine eyes had hung, 
And clos'd me out from the fair face of na- 
ture I 
O that my mind in mental darkness pent. 
Had no perception, no distinction known, 
Of fair, or foul, perfection, or defect. 
Nor thought conceiv'd of proud pre-eminence! 
O that it had ! O that I had been form"d 
An idiot from the birth ! a senseless change- 
ling? 



108 



DE MONFORT: A TRAGEDY. 



Who eats his glutton's meal with greedy haste, 
Nor know« the hand who feeds him. — 

{Fauces; tkeii,iiiacaiiier surrowj'ul voice.) 
What am I now ? how ends the day of life ? 
For end it must ; and terrible this gloom, 
This storm of horrours that surrounds its close. 
This little term of nature's agony 
Will soon be o'er, and what is past is past : 
But shall I then, on the dark lap of earth 
Lay me to rest, in still unconsciousness, 
Like senseless clod that doth no pressure feel 
From wearing foot of daily passenger ; 
Like steeped rock o'er which the breaking 

waves 
Bellow and foam unheard ? O would I could ! 

Enter Manuel, who springs forward to his mas- 
ter, but is checked upon perceiving De Mon- 
fort draw back and look sternly at him. 

Man. My lord, my master ! O my dearest 
master ! 

(De Monfort still looks at him without speak- 
ing.) 

Nay, do not thus regard me, good my Lord ! 

Speak to me : am I not your faithful Manuel ? 
De Man. (in a hasty broken voice.) Art thou 

alone ? 
Man. No, Sir, the lady Jane is on her way ; 

She is not far behind. 

DeMon. (tossing his arm over his head in an 
agony.) This is too much ! All I can 
bear but this ! 

It must not be. — Run and prevent her coming. 

Say, he who is detain'd a pris'ner here 

Is one to her unknown. I now am nothing. 

I am a man of holy claims bereft ; 

Out of the pale of social kindred cast ; 

Nameless and horrible. — 

Tell her De Monfort far from hence is gone 

Into a desolate and distant land. 

Ne'er to return again. Fly, tell her this ; 

For we must meet no more. 

Enter Jane De Monfort, bursting into the 
chamber, and followed by Freberg, Abbess, 
and several Nuns. 

Jane. We must ! we must ! My brother, O 
my brother ! 

(De Monfort turtis away his head and hides his 
face with his arm,. Jane stops short, and, 
making a great effort, turns to Freberg, and 
the others who followed her, and with an air 
of dignity stretches out her hand, beckoning 
them to retire. Ml retire but Freberg, who 
seems to hesitate.) 

And thou too, Freberg : call it not unkind. 

[Exit Freberg, Jane and De Monfort only re- 
main. 
Jane. My hapless Monfort ! 

(De Monfort turns round and looks sorrowful- 
ly upon her; she opens her arms to him, and 
he, rushing into them, hides his face upon her 
breast and weeps.) 
Jane. Ay , give thy sorrow vent ; here may'st 

tliou weep. 
De Mon. (in broken accents.) Oh ! this, my 
sister, makes me feel again 

The kindness of affectioQ. 



My mind has in a dreadful storm been tost ; 
Horrid and dark. — I thought to weep no 

more . — 
I've done a deed — But I am human still. 
Jane. I know thy sufTrings : leave thy sor 
row free : 
Thou art with one who never did upbraid ; 
Who mourns, who loves thee still. 

De Mon. Ah ! say'st thou so ? no, no ; it 
should not be. 
(Shrinking from her.) I am a foul and bloody 

murderer. 
For such embrace unmeet : O leave me ! leave 

me ! 
Disgrace and publick shame abide me now; 
And all, alas ! who do my kindred own, 
The direful portion share. — Away, away 1 
Shall a disgrac'd and publick criminal 
Degrade thy name, and claim affinity 
To noble worth like thine .-' — 1 have no name — 
I'm nothing now, not e'en to thee ; depart. 
(She takes his hand, and grasping it firmly, 
speaks xcith a determined voice.) 
Jane. De Monfort, hand in hand we have 
enjoy'd 
The playful term of infancy together ; 
And in the rougher path of ripen'd ye<ars 
We've been each other's stay. Dark lowers 

our fate. 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark pris- 
on-house ; 
In the terriffic face of armed law ; 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. 

De Mon. (looking at her with adihiration.) 
Heav'n bless thy gen'rous soul, my noble 

Jane ! 
I thought to sink beneath this load of ill, 
Depress'd with infamy and open shame ; 
I thought to sink in abject wretchedness: 
But for thy sake I'll rouse my manhood up, 
And meet it bravely; no unseemly weakness, 
I feel my rising strength, shall blot my end. 
To clothe thy cheek with shame. 
Jane. Yes, thou art noble still. 
De Mon. With thee I am ; who were not 
so with thee .' 
But ah ! my sister, short will be the term . 
Death's stroke will come, and in that state 

beyond. 
Where things unutterable wait the soul, 
New from its earthly tenement discharg'd, 
We shall be sever'd far. 
Far as the spotless purity of virtue 
Is from the raurd'rer's guilt, far shall we be. 
This is the gulf of dread uncertainty 
From which the soul recoils. 

Jane. The God who made thee is a God of 
mercy ; 
Think upon this. 

De Mon. (shaking his head.) No, no ! this 

blood ! this blood ! 
Jane. Yes, e'en the sin of blood may be for- 
given, 



DE MONFORT. A TRAGEDY. 



109 



When humble penitence hath once aton'd. 
De Moil, (eagerly.) What, after terms of 
lengthen d misery, 
Imprison'd anguish of tormented spirits, 
Shall 1 again, a renovated soul, 
Into the blessed family of the good 
Admittance have ? Think'st thou that this 

may be ? 
Speak if thou canst : O speak me comfort here ! 
For dreadful fancies, like an armed host, 
Have push'd me to despair. It is most hor- 
rible — 

speak of hope ! if any hope there be. 
(Jane is silcjit, and looks sorrowfully vpon him; 

then clasping her hands, and turning her 
eyes to heaven, seems to mutter a prayer.) 
De Mon. Ha I dost thou pray for me .' heav'n 
hear thy prayer ! 

1 fain would kneel. — Alas ! I dare not do it. 
Jane. Not so ! all by th' Almighty Father 

form'd. 
May in their deepest mis'ry call on him. 
Come kneel with me, my brother. 
(She kneels and prays to herself ; he kneels by 
her, and clasps his hands fervently , but speaks 
not. A noise of chains clanking is heard 
without, and they both rise.) 
De Mon. Hear'st thou that noise ? They 

come to interrupt us. 
Jane, (moving towards a side door.) Then 

let us enter here. 
De Mon. {catching hold of he? with a look of 
horrour.) Not there — not there — the 
corpse — the bloody corpse I 
Jane. What, lies he there .'' — tjnhappy Re- 

zenvelt .'' 
De Mon. A sudden thought has come across 
my mind; 
How came it not before .' Unhappy Rezenvelt ! 
Say'st thou but this .' 

Ja7ie. What should I say .' he was an hon- 
est man; 
I still have thought him such, as such lament 
him. 

(De Monfort utters a deep groan.) 
What means this heavy groan .' 

De Mon. It hath a meaning. 

Enter Abbess and Monks, with two Officers 
of justice carrying fetters in their hands to put 
upon De Monfort. 
Jane, (starting.) What men are these.'' 
1st Off. Lady, we are the servants of the 
law. 
And bear with us a power, w^hich doth con- 
strain 
To bind with fetters this our prisoner. 

{Pointing to De Monfort.) 
Jane. A stranger uncondemn'd .'' this can- 
not be. 
\st Off. As yet, indeed, he is by law un- 
judg'd. 
But is so far condemn'd by circumstance, 
That law, or custom sacred held as law, 
Doth fully warrant us, and it must be. 

Jane. Nay, say not so ; he has no power 
t'escape : 



Distress hath bound him with a heavy chain ; 
There is no need of yours. 

\st Off'. We must perform our office. 
Jane. O ! do not otter this indignity ! 
\st Off. Is it indignity in sacred law 
To bind a murderer ? {To 2d Officer.) Come, 
do thy work. 
Jane. Harsh are thy words, and stern thy 
harden'd brow ; 
Dark is thine eye ; but all some pity have 
Unto the last extreme of misery. 
I do beseech thee ! if thou art a man — 

{Kneeling to him.) 
(De Monfort, roused at this, runs up to Jane, 
a7id raises her hastily from the ground : then 
stretches himself up proudly.) 
De Mon. {to Jane.) Stand thoxi erect in na- 
tive dignity ; 
And bend to none on earth the suppliant knee, 
Though cloth'd in power imperial. To my 

heart 
It gives a feller gripe than many irons. 
{Holding out his hands.) Here , officers of law, 

bind on those shackles ; 
And, ifthey are too light, bring heavier chains. 
Add iron to iron; load, crush me to the 

ground : 
Nay, heap ten thousand weight upon my 

breast. 
For that were best of all. 
{A long pause, whilst they put irons upon him. 
After they are on, Jane looks at him, sorrow' 
fully, and lets her head sink on her breast. 
De Monfort stretches out his hand, looks at 
them, and then at Jane ; crosses them over his 
breast, and endeavours to suppress his feel- 
ings.*) 

1st Off I have it, too, in charge to move 
you hence, {To De Monfort.) 

Into another chamber more secure. 

De Mon. Well, I am ready, Sir. 
{Appi-oachiiig Jane, whom the Abbess is endea- 
vouring to comfort, but to no purpose.) 
Ah ! wherefore thus ! most honour'd and most 

dear ? 
Shrink not at the accoutrements of ill. 
Daring the thing itself. 

{Endeavouring to look cheerful.) 
Wilt thou permit me with a gyved hand ? 
{She gives her hand, ivhic.h he raises to his lips.) 
This was my proudest office. 

[Exeunt, De Monfort leading out Jane. 

Scene V. — an apartment in the con- 
vent, OPENING INTO ANOTHER ROOM, 
WHOSE LOW ARCHED DOOR IS SEEN IN 
THE BOTTOM OF THE STAGE. IN ONE 
CORNER A MONK IS SEEN KNEELING. 



* Should this play ever again be acted, perhaps 
it would be better that the curtain should drop 
here ; since here the story may be considered as 
completed, and what comes after, prolongs the 
piece too much when our interest for the fate of 
De Monfort is at an end. 



110 



DE MONFORT : A TRAGEDY. 



Enter another Monk, who, on perceiving hinu 
stops till he rises from his knees, and then goes 
eagerly up to him. 

1st Monk. How is the prisoner? 
2d Monk, (pointing to the door.) He is 
within, and the strong hand of death 
Is deahng witli him. 

1st jYlonk. How is this, good brother.'' 

Metliouglit lie brav'd it witli a manly spirit; 
And led, with shackled hands, his sister forth, 
Like one resolv'd to bear misfortune bravely. 
2d Monk. Yes, with heroick courage, for a 
while 
He seem'd inspir'd ; but, soondepress'd again, 
Remorse and dark despair o'erwhelm'd his 

soul : 
And, from the violent working of his mind. 
Some stream of life within his breast has burst; 
For many a time, within a little space. 
The ruddy tide has rush'd into his mouth. 
God grant his pains be short I 

1st Monk. How does the lady ? 

2d Monk. She sits and bears his head upon 
her lap. 
Wiping the cold drops from his ghastly face 
With such a look of tender wretchedness, 
It wrings the heart to see her. — 
How goes the night? 

1st Monk. It wears, methinlis, upon the mid- 
night hour. 
It is a dark and fearful night : the moon 
Is wrapp'd in sable clouds : the chill blast 

sounds 
Like dismal lamentations. Ay, who knows 
What voices mix with the dark midnight 

winds ? 
Nay, as I pass'd that yawning cavern's mouth, 
A whisp'ring sound, unearthly, reach'd my 

ear. 
And o'er my head a chilly coldness crept. 
Are there not wicked fiends and damned 

sprites. 
Whom yawning charnels, and th' unfathom'd 

depths 
Of secret darkness, at this fearful hour. 
Do upwards send, to watch, unseen, around 
The murd'rer's death-bed, at his fatal term, 
Ready to hail with dire and horrid welcome, 
Their future mate ? — I do believe there are. 
2d Monk. Peace, peace ! a God of wisdom 
and of mercy, 
Veils from our sight — Ha ! hear that heavy 
groan. (Jl groan heard loithin.) 

1st Monk. It is the dying man. 

{Another groan.) 
2d Monk. God grant him rest ! 

{Listening at the door.) 
I hear him struggling in the gripe of death, 
O piteous heaven ! {Goes from the door.) 

Enter Brother Thomas from the chamber. 
How now, good Brother? 

Thorn. Retire, my friends. O many a bed of 
death 
With all its pangs and horrours I have seen, 
But never aught like this ! Retire, my friends ; 
The death-bell will its awful signal give, 



When he has breath'd his last. 
I would move hence, but I am weak and faint : 
Let me a moment on thy shoulder lean. 
Oh, weak and mortal man ! 

{Leans on second Monk : a pause.) 
Enter Bernard ftomthe chamber. 
2d Monk, {to Bern.) How is your penitent? 
Bern. He is with Him who made him ; Him, 
who knows 
The soul of man : before whose awful pres- 
ence 
Th' unsceptred tyrant simple, helpless, stands 
Like an unclothed babe. {Bell tolls.) 

The dismal sound ! 
Retire and pray for the blood-stained soul : 
May heav'n have mercy on him ! 

{Bell tolls again.) [Exeunt. 

Scene VL — a hall or large room 
in the convent. the bodies of de 
monfort and rezenvelt are dis- 
covered laid out upon a low table 
or platform, covered with black, 
freberg, rernard, abbess, monks, 
and nuns attending. 

Mb. {to Freb.) Here must they they lie, 
my Lord, until we know 
Respecting this the order of the law. 

Freb. And you have wisely done, my rev 
'rend mother. 
{Goes to the table, and looks at the bodies, but 

without uncovering them.) 
Unhappy men ! ye, both in nature rich, 
With talents and with virtues were endued. 
Ye should have lov'd, yet deadly rancour 

came. 
And in the prime and manhood of your days 
Ye sleep in horrid death. O direful hate ! 
What shame and wretchedness his portion is. 
Who, for a secret inmate, harbours thee ! 
And who shall call him blameless, who ex- 
cites, 
Ungen'rously excites, with careless scorn, 
Such baleful passion in a brother's breast. 
Whom heav'n commands to love ? Low are 

ye laid : 
Still all contention now. — Low are ye laid : 
I lov'd you both, and mourn your hapless fall. 
Abb. They were your friends, my Lord? 
Freb. I lov'd them both. How docs the lady 

Jane ? 
Abb. She bears misfortune with intrepid 
soul. 
1 never saw in woman bow'd with grief. 
Such moving dignity. 

Freb. Ay, still the same. 

I've known her long : of worth most excel- 
lent ; 
But in the day of woe, she ever rose 
Upon the mind with added majesty. 
As the dark mountain more sublimely tow'rs 
Mantled in clouds and storm. 

Enter Manuel and Jerome. 
Man. {pointing.) Here, my good Jerome' 
here's a piteous sight. 



DE MONFORT i A TRAGEDY. 



Ill 



Jer. A piteous sight ! yet I will look upon 
him : 
I'll see his face in death. Alas, alas ! 
I've seen him move a noble gentleman ; 
And when with vexing passion undisturb'd, 
He look'd most graciously. 
(Lift? up in mistake the cloth from the body of 

Rezenvelt, and starts hack withhorrour.) 
Oh ! this was the bloody work I Oh, oh ! oh, 

oh ! 
That human hands could do it I 

(Drops the cloth again.) 
Man. That is the murder'd corpse; here 
lies De Monfort. 

(Going to uncover the other body.) 
Jer. (turning away his head.) No, no ! I 

cannot look upon him now. 
Man. Didst thou not come to see him .'' 
Jer. Fy! cover him — inter him in the dark — 
Let no one look upon him. 

Bern. (To Jer.) Well dost thou shew the 
abhorrence nature feels 
For deeds of blood, and I commend thee well. 
In the most ruthless heart compassion wakes 
For one, who, from the hand of fellow man, 
Hath felt such cruelty. 

(Uncovering the body of Rezenvelt.^ 
This is the murder'd corse : 

(Uncovering the body ofDe Monfort.) 

But see, I pray ! 

Here lies the murderer. What think'st thou 

here .' 
Look on those features, thou hast seen them 

oft, 
With the last dreadful conflict of despair, 
So fix'd in horrid strength. 
See those knit brows ; those hollow sunken 

eyes; 
The sharpen'd nose, with nostrils all distent; 
That writhed mouth, where yet the teeth ap- 
pear. 
In agony, to gnash the nether lip. 
Think'st thou, less painful than the murd'- 

rer's knife 
Was such a death as this .' 
Ay, and how changed too those matted locks ! 
Jer. Merciful heaven ! his hair is grisly 
grown, 
Chang'd to white age, that was, but two days 

since, 
Black as the raven's plume. How may this 
he? 
Bern. Such change, from violent conflict 
of the mind. 
Will sometimes come. 

Jer. Alas, alas ! most wretched ! 

Thou wert too good to do a cruel deed, 
And so it kill'd thee. Thou hast suffer'd for it. 
God rest thy soul ! I needs must touch thy 

hand, 
And bid tliee long farewell. 

(Laying his hand on De Monfort.) 

Bern. Drawback, draw back; see where 

the lady comes. 

Enter Jane De Monfort. 

Freberg, icho has been for some time retired by 

himself to the bottom of the stage, now steps 



forxcard to lead her in, but checks himself on 
seeing the fixed sorrow of her countenance, 
and draics back respectfully. Jane advances 
to the table, and looks attentively at the cov- 
ered bodies. M.<inuel points out the body of 
De Monfort, and she gives a gentle inclina- 
tion of the head, to signify that she under- 
stands him. She then bends tenderly over it, 
without speaking. 
Man. (to Jane, as she raises her head.) Oh, 

madam ! my good lord. 
Jane. Well says thy love, my good and 
faithful Manuel ; 
But we must mourn in silence. 
Man. Alas ! the times that I have follow'd 

him ! 
Jane. Forbear, my faithful Manuel. For 
this love 
Thou hast my grateful thanks ; and here's my 

hand : 
Thou hast lov'd him, and I'll remember thee. 
Where'er I am; in whate'er spot of earth 
I linger out the remnant of my days, 
1 will remember thee. 

Man. Nay, by the living God ! where'er 
you are, 
There will I be. I'll prove a trusty servant: 
I'll follow you, even to the world's end. 
My master's gone ; and I indeed am mean, 
Yet will I show the strength of nobler men, 
Should any dare upon your honoured worth 
To put the slightest wrong. Leave you, dear 

lady! 
Kill me, but say not this ! 

(Throwing himself at her feet.) 

Jane, (raising him.) Well, then ! be thou 

my servant, and my friend. 

Art thou, good Jerome, too, in kindness come .' 

I see thou art. How goes it with thine age ? 

Jer. Ah, Madam ! woe and weakness dwell 

with age : 

Would I could serve you with a young man's 

strength ! 
I'd spend my hfe for you. 
Jajie. Thanks, worthy Jerome. 

! who hath said, the wretched have no 

friends ? 

Freb. In every sensible and gen'rous breast 
Affliction finds a friend; but unto thee. 
Thou most exalted and most honourable. 
The heart in warmest adoration bows, 
And even a worship pays. 

Jane. Nay, Freberg, Freberg ! grieve me 
not, my friend. 
He to whose ear my praise most welcome was, 
Hears it no more ; and, oh our piteous lot ! 
What tongue will talk of him ? Alas, alas ! 
This more than all will bow me to the earth ; 

1 feel my misery here. 

The voice of praise was wont to name us both ; 

I had no greater pride. 

(Covers her face icith her hands, and bursts 
into tears. Here they all hang about her ■• 
Freberg supporting her tenderly. Manuel 
embracing her knees, and old Jerome catch- 
ing hold of her robe affectionately. Bernard, 
Abbess, Monks, and Nuns, likewise^ gather 



112 



DE MONFORT i A TRAGEDY. 



raundher, with looks of sympathy.) 
Enter two Officers of law. 

1st Off. Where is the prisoner ? 

Into our hands he straight must be consign'd. 

Bern. He is not sul)ject now to human laws; 
The prison that awaits him is tlie grave. 

1st Off'. Ha ! say'st thou so .' there is foul 
play in this. 

Man. {to Off!) Hold thy unrighteous 
tongue, or hie thee hence, 
Nor, in the presence of this honour'd dame, 
Utter the slightest meaning of reproacii. 

1st Off. I am an officer on duty call'd. 
And have authority to say, " How died he ? " 
{Here Jane shakes off the weakness of grief, 

and repressing Manuel, who is about to reply 

to the Officer, steps forward with dignity.) 

Jane. Tell them, by whose authority you 
come, 
H'e died that death which best becomes a man 
Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill 
And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit: 
A death that kills the noble and the brave. 
And only them. He had no other wound. 

1st Off. And shall I trust to this ? 

Jane. Do as thou wilt : 

To one who can suspect my simple word 
I have no more reply. Fulfil thine office. 

1st Off. No, Lady, I believe your honour'd 
word, 
And will no further search. 

Jane. I thank your courtesy : thanks, thanks 
to all ; 
My rev'rend mother, and ye honour'd maids; 



Ye holy men, and you, my faithful friends; 
The blessing of the afflicted rest with you ! 
And He, who to the wretched is most piteous,, 
Will recompense you. — Freberg, thou art good; 
Remove the body of the friend you lov'd ; 
'Tis Rezenvelt I mean. Take thou this charge: 
'Tis meet, that with his noble ancestors 
He lie entomb'd in honourable state. 
And now I have a sad request to make. 
Nor will these holy sisters scorn my boon : 
That I, within these sacred cloister walls, 
May raise a humble, nameless tomb to him, 
Who, but for one dark passion, one dire deed, 
Had claim'd a record of as noble worth 
As e'er enrich'd the sculptur'd pedestal. 

[Exeunt. 

Note. — The last three lines of the last speech 
are not intended to give the reader a true charac- 
ter of De Monfort, whom I liave endeavoured 
to represent [throughout the Play as, notwithstand- 
ing his other good qualities, proud, suspicious, and 
susceptible of envy; but only to e.xpress the par- 
tial sentiments of an affectionate sister, natural- 
ly more inclined to praise him from the misfor- 
tane into which he had fallen. 



[D= The Tragedy of De Monfort has been 
brought out at Drury-Lane Theatre, adapted to 
the stage by Mr Kemble. I am infinitely obliged 
to that Gentleman for the excellent powers he 
has exerted, assisted by the incomparable talenta 
of his sister, Mrs. Siddons, in endeavouring to ob- 
tain for it that publick favour, which I sincerely 
wish it had been found more worthy of reeivi ng 



THE ELECTION: A COMEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Baltimore, a country gentleman, and the head 
of an old family fallen into decay. 

Freeman, a great clothier, who has acquired 
by his own industry a very large fortune. 

Truebridge, the friend of Baltimore. 

Charles, aw idle young man, cousin to Balti- 
more, and brought up in his house. 

JeNKISON, f rr, /)« 

cj ' > Two Jittorneiis. 

bERVET, 3 

Bescatti, an Italian master. 

D ' > Servants to Baltimore. 

Feter, 3 

Voters, Mob, Boys, Jailers, 6^~c. <^c. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs. Baltimore. 
Mrs. Freeman. 

Charlotte, daughter to Freeman. 
Governess. 

Margery, an old servant of the Baltimore 
family. 

Servants, Voters, Wives, Mob, <^c. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — the open market-place of 

A SMALL country TOWN, A CROUD OF 
MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN, SEEN 
ON THE BACK GROUND; MARGERY AND 
COUNTRYMAN SURROUNDED WITH SEV- 
ERAL OTHERS ARE DISCOVERED TALK- 
ING ON THE FRONT OF THE STAGE. 

Mar. Patron I pot-man an' you will. As 
long as he holds the brown jug to their heads, 
they"!! run after him en' he were the devil. 
Oh ! that I should live to see the heir of the 
ancient family of Baltimore set aside in his 
own borough by a nasty, paltry, nobody- 
knows-who of an upstart! What right has he, 
forsooth ! to set himself up for to oppose a 
noble gentleman.' I remember his own aunt 
very well ; a poor industrious pains-taking 
woman, with scarcely a pair of shoes to her 
feet. 

Countryman. Well, well, and what does 
that signify. Goody ? He has covered more 
bare feet with new shoes since he came among 
us, than all the noble families in the country, 
let his aunt wear what shoes she would : ay, 

14 



and his bounty has filled more empty bellies 
too, though his granum might dine on a tur- 
nip, for aught I know or care about the mat- 
ter. 

Mar. Don't tell me about his riches, and 
his bounty, and what not : will all that ever 
make him any thing else than the son of John 
Freeman the weaver .'' I wonder to hear you 
talk such nonsense, Arthur Wilkins ; you that 
can read books and understand reason : such 
a fellow as that is not good enough to stand 
cap in hand before Mr. Baltimore. 
(The rabble come forward, huzzaing, and ma- 
king a great noise, and take different sides 

of the stage.) 

Croud on F. side.) Huzza ! huzza ! Free- 
man for ever ! 

Mar. Yes, yes, to be sure : Freeman for 
ever ! fat Sam the butcher for ever ! black 
Dick the tinker for ever ! any body is good 
enough for you, filthy rapscallions. 

1st Mob on F. side.) Ay, scold away, old 
Margery ! Freeman for ever ! say I. Down 
with your proud, penny less gentry ! Free- 
man for ever ! 

Mar. Down with your rich would-be-gen- 
try upstarts ! Baltimore for ever ! {to mob on 
her side.) Why don't you call out, oafs .' 
(The mob on her side call out Baltimore, and 

the mob on the other, Freeman; but the F. 

side gets the better.) • 

What, do you give it up so ? you poor, spirit- 
less nincumpoops ! I would roar till I bursted 
first, before I would give it up so to such a 
low-lived, beggarly rabble. 

2d mob on F. side.) They lack beef and 
porter, Margery. That makes fellows loud 
and hearty, I trow. Coats of arms and old 
pictures wont fill a body's stomach. Come 
over to Freeman-hall, and we'll shew you good 
cheer, woman. Freeman for ev§r ! 

Mar. Ha' done with your bawling, blac- 
moor ! what care I for yonr good cheer ? none 
of your porter nor your beef for me, truly ! 

2d mob on F. side.) No, Goody ! mayhap, 
as you have been amongst the gentry all 
your life, you may prefer a cup of nice sage 
tea, or a httle nice rue-water, or a leg of a 
roasted snipe, or a bit of a nice tripe duraplin. 

Mar. Close your fool's mouth, oaf! or I'll 
cram a duinplin into it that you v/ont like the 
chewing of Mr. Baltimore's father kept a 
table fike a prince, when your poor beggarly 
candidate's father had scarcely a potatoe in 
his pot. But knaves like you were not ad- 
mitted within his gates to see it, indeed. 
Better men than you, or your master either, 
were not good enough to take away his dirty 



114 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



trenchers; and the meanest creature about 
his liouse was as well dress'd, and in as good 
order, as if it had been the king's court, and 
every day in the year had been a Sunday. 

2d Mob on F. side.) So they were. 
Goody ; 1 remember it very well ; the very 
sucking pigs ran about his' yardj witli full 
bottom'd wigs on, and the grey goose waddled 
through the dirt with a fine flounced petti- 
coat. 

Mar. Hold your fool's tongue, do ! po upr 
start parliament-men for me ! Baltimore for 
ever ! 

Croud on B. side call out) Baltimore for 
ever ! 

1st Mob on B. side.) Sour paste and tan- 
gled bobbins for weavers ! 

1st Mob on F. side.) Empty purses and tat- 
ter'd lace for gentlemen I 

Old icQvum on B. side.) We'll have no 
strange new-comers for our member : Balti- 
more for me I 

Old looman on F. side.) Good broth is better 
than good blood, say I : Freeman for me ! 

Little Boy on B. side.) Weaver, weaver, 
flap, flap ! 
Grin o'er your shuttle, and rap, rap ! 

(acting the motion of a weaver.) 

Little Boy on F. side.) Gentleman, gentle- 
man, proud of a word ! 
Stand on your tip-toes, and bow to my lord ! 
(acting a gentleman.) 

Mar. Go, you little devil's imp ! who teach- 
es you to blaspheme your betters i" 
{She gives the boy a box on the ear: the mob on 

the other side take his part : a great uproar 

and confusion, and exeunt botli sides fight- 
ing.) 
Scene II. — a vtalk leading through 

A GROVfc, AND CLOSE BY IT. 

Enter Mrs. Baltimore, as if just alighted from 

her carriage, followed byher Maid and Peter, 

carrying a box and port-folio and other things. 

Mrs. Bait. But what does all this distant 
noise and huzzaing mean .' the whole town is 
in commotion. 

Pet. It is nothing as I know of. Ma'am, but 
my Master and Mr. Freeman's voters fighting 
with one another at the alehouse doors, toshew 
their good will to the candidates, as all true 
hearty fellows do at an election. 

Mrs. B. Yes, our member is dead sudden- 
ly ; I had forgot. But who are the candidates.' 

Pet. My master, Madam, and Mr. Freeman. 

Mrs. B. Gentlemen supported by them, you 
mean .' 

Pet. No Ma'am, I mean their own two 
selves, for their own two selves. But I beg 
pardon for naming such a man as Freeman on 
the same day with a gentleman like my Mas- 
ter. 

Mrs. B. Mr. Freeman, if you please, Peter; 
and never let me hear you name him with 
disrespect in my presence. Carry those things 
into the house : {to the maid) and you too, 
Blond ; I see Mr. Baltimore. 

(Exeunt servants. 



Enter Baltimore. 

Bait. My dear Isabella, you are welcome 
home, how are you after your journey .■" 

Mrs. B. Perfectly well ; and very glad, ev- 
en after so short an absence, to find myself at 
home again. But what is going on here ? I 
have heard strange news just now : Peter tells 
me you are a candidate for the Borough, and 
Mr. Freeman is your rival. It is some blun- 
der of his own, I suppose .-" 

Bait. No, it is not. 

Mrs. B. {stepping back in surprise, and hold- 
ing up her hands.) And are you actually 
throwing away the last stake of your ruin'd 
fortune on a contested election. 

Bait. I will sell every acre of land in my 
possession, rather than see that man sit in 
parliament for the borough of Westown. 

Mrs. B. And why should not he as well 
as another ■ The declining fortunes of your 
family have long made you give up every 
idea of the kind for yourself: of what conse- 
quence, then, can it possibly be to you ? I 
know very well, my dear Baltimore, it is not 
a pleasant thing for the representative of an 
old family declined in fortune, to see a rich 
obscure stranger buy up all the land on every 
side, and set himself down like a petty prince 
in his neighbourhood. But if he had not done 
it, some other most likely would ; and what 
should we have gain'd by the change ? 

Bait. O ! any other than himself I could 
have suff"er'd. 

Mrs. B. you amaze me. He has some dis- 
agreeable follies, I confess, but he is friendly 
and liberal. 

Bait. Yes, yes, he aff'ects patronage and 
publick spirit : he is ostentatious to an absur- 
dity. 

Mrs. B. Well then, don't disturb yourself 
about it. If he is so, people will only laugh 
at him. 

Bait. O! hang them, but they wont laugh! 
I liave seen the day, when, if a man made 
himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at 
him. But now, by heaven, every thing that 
is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them 
but so much the better ! If they would but 
laugh at him, I should be content. 

Mrs. B. My dear Baltimore ! curb this 
strange fancy that has taken such a strong 
hold of your mind, and be reasonable. 

Bait. I can be reasonable enough. I can 
see as well as you do that it is nonsense to 
disturb myself about this man ; and when he 
is absent I can resolve to endure him : but 
whenever I see him again, there is something 
in his full satisfied face ; in the tones of his 
voice ; ay, in the very gait and shape of his 
legs, that is insufferable to me. 

Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bait. What makes you laugh, Madam ^ 

Atrs. B. Indeed I have more cause to cry ! 
yet I could not help laughing when you talk'd 
of his gait and his legs : for people, you must 
know, have taken it into their heads that there 
is a resemblance between you and him : I 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



116 



Inve, myself, in twilight, sometimes mistaken 
the one for the other. 

Bait. It must have been in midnight, I 
think. People have taken itinto their heads! 
blind idiots ! I could kick my own shins if I 
thought they had the smallest resemblance to 
his. • 

Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Bah. And this is matter of amusement for 
you, Ma'am ? I abhor laughing. 

Mrs. B. Pray, pray forgive me ! This is 
both ludicrous and distressing. I knew that 
you disliked this man from the first day he 
settled in your neighbourhood, and that, du- 
ring two years acquaintance, your aversion 
has been daily increasing ; but I had no idea 
of the extravagant height to which it has now 
arrived. 

Bait. Would I had sold every foot of my 
lands, and settled in the lone wilds of Ameri- 
ca, ere this man came, to be the swoln pos- 
sessor of my forefathers lands ; their last re- 
maining son, now cramp'd andelbow'd round, 
in one small corner of their once wide and ex- 
tensive domains ! Oh ! I shall never forget 
what I felt, when, with that familiar and dis- 
crusting affability, he first held out to me his 
damned palm, and hail'd me as a neighbour. 
{striding up and dotcn the stage.) Ay, by my 
soul, he pretends to be affable ! 

Mrs. B. You feel those things too keenly. 

Bolt. A stock or a stone would feel it. He 
lias opposed me in every contest, from the 
election of a member of parliament down to 
the choosing of a parish clerk ; and yet, damn 
him ! he will never give me a fair occasion of 
quarelling with him, for then I should be hap- 
pier, (striding up and down again.) Hang 
it ! it was not worth a pinch of snuff to me, 
whether the high road went on one side of my 
field or the other ; but only that I saw he was 
resolved to oppose me in it, and I would have 
died rather than have yielded to him. 

Mrs. B. Are you sure, Baltimore, that your 
own behaviour has not provoked him to that 
opposition .' 

Bait, {striding up and down as he speaks.) 
He has extended his insolent liberalities over 
the whole country round. The very bantlings 
lisp his name as they sit on their little stools 
in the sun. 

Mrs. B. My dear friend ! 

Bait. He has built two new towers to his 
house ; and it rears up its castled head 
amongst the woods, as if its master were the 
lord and chieftain of the whole surrounding 
country. 

Mrs. B. And has this power to offend you .' 

Bait. No, no; let him pile up his house to 
the clouds, if he will ! I can bear all this pa- 
tiently : it is his indelicate and nauseous civil- 
ity that drives me mad. He goggles and he 
smiles ; he draws back his full watery lip like 
a toad, {making a mouth of disgust.) Then he 
spreads out his nail-bitten fingers as he speaks 
—hah ! 



Mrs. B. And what great harm does all this 
do you .' 

Bait. What harm .'' it makes my very flesh 
creep, like the wrigglings of a horae-leech or 
a maggot. It is an abomination beyond all en- 
durance ! 

Mrs. B. The straiige fancies you take in re- 
gard to every thing this poor man does, are to 
me astonishing. 

Bait. {Stopping short, and looking fixedly 
on her.) Are to you astonishing .'' I doubt it 
not : I was a fool to expect that a wife so 
many years younger than myself would have 
any sympathy with my feelings. 

Mrs. B. Baltimore! you wrong me, unkindly. 
— But his daughter comes : she will over hear 
us. 

Bait. What brings that affected fool here ? 
She is always coming here. It is an excres- 
cence from the toad's back : the sight of her 
is an offence to me. 

Enter Chaiilotte, with an affected air of great 
delicacy . 

Char. How do you do, my dear Mrs. Balti- 
more .-' I am quite charm'd to see you. {curt- 
seys affectedly to Bait.) 

Mrs. B. I thank you, my dear, you are early 
abroad this morning. 

Char. O I I am almost kill'd with fatigue ; 
but I saw your carriage at the gate, and I 
could not deny myself the pleasure of inquir- 
ing how you do. The heat overcomes one so 
much in this weather : it is enough to make 
one faint : it is really horrid, {speaking in a 
faint soft voice, and fanning herself aff'eUedly .) 

Mrs. B. It does not affect me. 

Char. No ! O you are not so robust, I am 
sure. 

Enter a little Country Girl, trailing a great 
piece of muslin after her. 

Girl, {to Char.) Here, Miss ; here is a piece 
of your petticoat that you left on the bushes, 
as you scrambled over the hedge to look at 
the bird's nest yonder. 

Char, {in confusion.) Ola! the briars will 
catch hold of one so, as one goes along. Give 
it me, give it me. (takes the muslin and crams 
it hastily into her pocket.) This weather makes 
one go by the side of ditches, and amongst 
bushes, and any where for a little shade. 

Bait. Tadpoles love ditches in all weathers. 

[Exit. 

Char, (looking after him strangely for a. mo- 
ment or two, and then skipping lightly up to 
Mrs. B. and taking her kindly hy the hand.) 
Thank heaven he's gone ! I stand more in 
awe of him, than my mother and my govern- 
ess, and all the whole pack of masters that 
ever came about the house. If there was not 
a certain look about him now and then, that 
puts nie in mind of my father, I should take 
a downright aversion to him. O ! I beg par- 
don ! I mean I should not like him very well, 
even tho' he is your husband. But was it not 
provoking in that little chit to follow me with 
those rass in her hand .' 



116 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



Mrs. B. I suppose we shall have a glove or 
a garter coming after you bye-and-bye. 

Ckar. O they may bring what they please 
now! — Well, How d'ye do? how dye do? 
how d'ye do? {taking Mrs. B. by the hand, and 
skipping round her joijf ally.) 

Mrs. B. Very well, my good little Char- 
lotte. 

Char. I am delighted to see you return'd. 
Ah, don't you remember how good you were 
to me, when I was a little urchin at Mrs. 
Highman's school? and how I used to stand 
by your side when you dress'd, and count 
over the pins in your pincushion ? 

Mrs. B. I remember it very well. 

Char. But how comes it that we meet so 
seldom ? you never come to see us now, and 
I dare not come to you so often as I wish, for 
Mr. Baltimore looks at me so sternly. Lee 
papa and him contend with one another as 
they please; what have we to do with their 
plaguy election ? O if we were but together ! 
we could work and talk to one enother all day 
long, f.nd it would be so pleasant ! 

Mrs. B. Indeed, my dear Charlotte, I wish 
I could have you frequently with me ; but I 
hope you have many pleasant employments 
at home. 

Char. Ah, but I have not tho'. I am tired 
to death of music, and drawing, and Italian, 
and German, and geography, and astronomy, 
and washes to make my hands white, {shak- 
ing her head piteously.) But what does it sig- 
nify fretting ? I know I must be an accom- 
plish'd woman ; I know it very well. 

Mrs. B. {smiling.) Don't you like to be oc- 
cupied ? 

Char. O yes : it is not that I am a lazy girl. 
If they would plague me no more with my 
masters, but give me some plain pocket- 
handkerchiefs to hem, I would sit upon the 
footstool all day, and sing like a linnet. 

Mrs. B. My dear girl, and so there must be 
things in this mix'd world to keep even thy 
careless breast from being as blithe as a Im- 
net. But you were going home • I'll walk a 
little way with you. 

Char. I thank you {looking off the stage.) 
Is not that Charles at a distance ? I dare say, 
now, he has been a fishing, or looking after 
coveys of partridges, or loit'ring about the 
horse-dealers. I hope he did not see me get 
over the hedge tho'. 

Mrs. B. Alas, poor Charles ! I wish he had 
more useful occupations. It is a sad thing 
for a young man to be hanging about idle. 

Char. So my papa says : and, do you know, 
I believe ho had it in his head to get some 
appointment for him when this election came 
in the way. Shall I put him in mind of it? 

Mrs. B. No, no, my dear Charlotte, that 
must not be. Shall we walk ? 

Char. {Scampering off".) Stop a little, pray. 

[Exit. 

Mrs. B. Where is she gone to now ? 

Clmr. {returning u'ith something inker hip.) 
Only to fetch my two blac' kittens. I bought 



them from a boy, as I went along, to save 
them from drowning. I could not curtsey to 
Mr. Baltimore, you know, with kittens in my 
lap, so I dropp'd them slyly under the hedge 
as I enter'd ; for this fellow with the white 
spot on his nose makes a noise like a little 
devil. 
{They go arm in arm to the side of the stage to 

go out, when Mrs. B. looking behind her 

sto])s short.) 

Mrs. B. No, I must not walk farther with 
you just now : I see Mr. Truebridge coming 
this way, and I wish to speak to him. 
Good morning, my dear Charlotte. 

[Exit Charlotte. 
Enter Truebridge. 
You are hurrying away very fast ; I did not 
know you were here. 

True. I have been in the library writing a 
letter, which I ought to have done before I 
left my own house. I am going from home 
for a few days, and I came to see Baltimore 
before I set out. 

Mrs. B. You are always going from home. 
I am verry sorry you are going at this time, 
when your presence here might have been 
so useful. You might have persuaded Bal- 
timore, perhaps, to give up this foolish contest 
with so rich a competitor as Freeman. 

True. No, it is better, perhaps, to let them 
fight it out. We should only have separated 
them, like two game-cocks, who are sure to 
be at it again, beak and spurs, with more fury 
than ever. 

Re-enter Baltimore. 

Bait, {to True.) You have forgot your letter. 
A pleasant journey to you I 

{gives him a letter.) 

True. Farewell for a few days ! I hope to 
learn, on my return, that you have carried on 
this contest with temper and liberality, since 
you will engage in it. 

Bait. Why you know, Truebridge, I am 
compell'd to engage in it. 

True. O certainly, and by very weighty 
reasons too ! A man may injure in a hundred 
different ways and provoke no hostile return ; 
but, when added to some petty offences, he 
varies his voice and gesture, wears his coat 
and doublet, nay, picks his very teeth in a 
manner that is irksome to us, what mortal is 
there, pagan or believer, that can refrain from 
setting himself in array against him ? 

Bait. Well, well ! give yourself no trouble. 
I'll keep my temper; 111 do every thing 
calmly and reasonably. 

True. Do so ; I shan't return, probably, till 
the poll is closed. I have told you my rea- 
sons for taking no part in the business ; and 
let the new member be who he will, I am re- 
solved to shake hands cordially with him. It 
won't do for one who has honours and pen- 
sions in view, to quarrel with great men. 
Good bye to you ! — Madam, all success to 
your wishes. [Exit. 

Bait. Ask favours of such a creature as 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



117 



Freeman ! He speaks it but in jest. Yet if 
I did not know him to be one of the most in- 
dependent men in the world, I should be 
tempted to believe that he too had become 
sophisticated. 

Mrs. B. Ah, do not torment yourself with 
suspicions I I am afraid it is a disposition 
that has been growing upon you of late. 

Bait. No, madam ; it is upon you this dis- 
position has been growing. Whenever I am 
in the company of that-— I will not name him 
— I have of late observed that your eyes are 
bent upon me perpetually. I hate to be look'd 
at when I am in that man's company. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II, 



Scene I. — a room in freeman's house; 

A TABLE WITH DRAWINGS, StC. SCAT- 
TERED UPON IT, IN ONE CORNER, AND 
A WRITING TABLE NEAR THE FRONT 
OF THE STAGE. MRS. FREEMAN IS 
DISCOVERED WRITING. 

Enter Charlotte and her Governess. 

Mrs. F. (raising her head.) Come here, Miss 
Freeman : that gown sits with no grace in the 
world (turning Char, round.) No, it is not at 
all what I intended : I shall have it taken to 
pieces again.) (To the Gov.) Was she in the 
stocks this morning .' 

Gov. Yes, Madam. 

Mrs. F. From her manner of holding her 
head one would scarcely believe it. Go to 
your drawing, and finish it if you can before 
Mr. Bescatti comes. 
(Charlotte sits doicn unwillingly to the draic- 

ing table ; the Governess takes her icork 

and sits by her; and Mrs. Freeman sits 

doicn again to write.) 

Enter Mr. Bescatti. 

Mrs. F. O Bescatti ! you are just the very 
person I want. I have put a quotation from 
one of your Italian poets, expressive of the 
charms of friendship, into the letter I am 
writing to my dear, amiable, Mrs. Syllabub ; 
and as I know she shews all the letters she 
receives from her friends, I would not have 
a fault in it for the world. Look at it, pray ! 
Will it do .= 

(giving him the letter with an air of self satis- 
faction.) 

Bes. (shaking his head.) No, Madam ; I 
must be free to say, dat it won't do: de two 
first ords are wrong, and de two last ords are 
not right. 

Mrs. F. (colouring and bridling vp.) Why 
there are but four words of it altogether, Mr. 
Bescatti. 

Bes. Yes, Madam ; der you be very right; 
der you be under no mistake at all ; der be 
just four ords in it, neider more nor less. 
Mrs. F. Well, well, pray correct it for me ! 



I suppose I was thinking of something else 
when I wrote it. 

Bes. (after correcting the letter.) It is done, 
Madam. I hope de young lady will soon fin- 
ish her drawing, dat I may have de honour 
to propose my little instruction. 

Char, (rising from the table.) I can finish 
it to-morrow. 

Mrs. F. Shew Mr. Bescatti your two last 
drawings (Char, shews him her drawings.) 
Every one from your country is fond of this 
delightful art. How do you like this piece ? 

Bes. It be very agreeable. 

Gov. (looking over his shoulder.) O beau- 
tiful, charming ! de most pretty of de world ! 

Mrs. F. There is such a fine glow in the 
colouring ! so much spirit in the whole. 

Bes. (tardily.) Yes. 

Mrs. F. And so much boldiiess in the de- 
sign. 

Bes. (tardily^ Yes. 

Mrs. F. And the cattle in that landscape 
are so spirited and so correct. 

Bes. O dey be de very pretty sheep, indeed. 

Mrs. F. Why, those are cows, Mr. Bescatti 
— those are cows. 

Bes. O, Madam, I make no doubt dat in 
reality dey are cows, alto in appearance dey 
are de sheep. 

Mrs. F (shetcing him another piece.) He 
will understand this better. The subject is 
so prettily imagined ! a boy with an apple in 
his hand : sucli pleasing simplicity ! look at 
those lights and shades : her master himself 
says it is touched with the hand of an artist. 

Bes. Yes, he be a very pretty fellow — and 
a very happy one too : he has got one apple 
in his hand, and anoder in his mout. 

Mrs. F. Another in his mouth ! why that 
is the round swelling of his cheek, Mr. Bes- 
catti. But lock at his head (impatiently as 
he looks at the wrong ove.) No, no, this one. 

Bes. O dat one — dat has one side of the face 
white and t'oder black ! 

Gov. O beautiful, excellent! — all dat der 
is of pretty — all dat der is of— of de most pret- 

ty! 

Mrs. F. There is so much effect in it ; so 
much force and distinctness. 

Bes. Yes, der be good contrast ; nobody 
will mistake de one side of de face for de 
oder. 

Enter Servant. 

Scr. Every thing in the next room is set 
out. Ma'am — Have you any orders .' 

Mrs. F. Don't trouble me about it: I'll 
look at it by and by, if I have nothing better 
to do. (Exit Ser.) — Miss Freeman, there is 
no time to lose ; Bescatti and you must be 
busy, for I expect Mr. Tweedle this morning, 
with a new song in his pocket. 

Enter a Servant hastily. 

Ser. All the voters are come. Ma'am, and, 
my master says we must open the great room 
immediately. 



118 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



{^Opcns folding-doors at the hottom of the 

stage, and discovers a large room with a 

long table set out, plentifully covered with 

cold meats, 4"C. ^c. 

Mrs. F. What could possess the creatures 
to come so early ? If I am to have the whole 
morning of it, 1 shall be dead before it is over. 
Heigli ho ! here they are. 
{Enter a great number of voters with their 

wives and daughters, and Freeman shewing 

them in himself) 

Free, with a. vcrij affable smiling counte- 
nance.) Come in, ladies and gentlemen; come 
in, my very good neighbours ; my wife will 
be proud to see you. (presents them to Mrs. 
Freeman, icho receives them with affected, con- 
descension; zchilst Charlotte draws herself 
up by her mother's side, and curtseys to them 
in the same affected tnanner.) — This is my very 
good friend Mr. Ginger, fmy dear ; and this 
is worthy Mr. Fudge. — But where is your 
wife, Mr. Fudge.' we are near neighbours, 
you know, and I see no reason why your 
good woman and mine should not be better 
acquainted. 

Mr. Fudge. She is standing close by you, 
Sir. 

Free. O, I beg pardon, my dear Madam ! I 
did not know you. {to Mrs. Fudge.) — My dear, 
this is Mrs. Fudge, {presenting her to Mrs . F.) 
— But my good Mr. Hassock, why have not 
you brought your pretty daughter with you .-' 

Mr. Hassock. So I have, your honour ; this 
be she. {jjointing to his daughter.) 

Free. She must give me her hand : I have 
a girl of my own too, you see ; but she does 
not hold up her head so well as this young 
lady. 

More People still coming in. 

Ha! welcome, my good friends ! welcome, my 
good neighbour Huskins, and you too, my 

good Mrs. Huskins ! Ha, Mr. Grub ! you 

do me h'^nour. How do the soap-works go 
on.' j'ou will soon be the richest man in tlie 
country, though you do spai'e me a morning 
now and then. 

Mr. Grub, {conccitedlij.) Aye, picking up a 
little in my poor way, just to keep the pot 
boiling. {Going vp to Mrs. Freeman, and 
wiping his face.) TNIadam, I make bold, as the 
fashion goes on them there occasions. 
(Gives her a salute with a good loud smack, 
whilst she shrinks back disconcerted, and 

Bescatti and the Governess shrug up their 

shoulders, and Charlotte skulksbehind their 

backs _ frigh tr iied.) 

Mr. Fudge. {spilVmgotithis chew of tobacco 
and wiping his moxith.) As the fashion goes 
round, Madam — 

Free, (preventing him as he is going vp to 
Mrs. F.) JVo, no, my good neighbours : this 
is too much ceremony amongst friends. Let 
us go into the next room, and see if there is 
any thing to eat : 1 dare say there is some 
cold meat and cucumber for us. Let me have 
the honour, Mrs. Fudge. (Tkcij all go into 



the next room and seat themselves round the 
table.) 

Re-enter Freeman in a great bustle. 
More chairs and more covers, here ! Thomas J 
Barnaby ! .Jenkins ! (the servants run up and 
doicn carrying things across the stage. Enter 
more people.) Ha ! welcome — welcome, my 
good friends ! we were just looking for you. 
Go into the next room, and try if you can 
find any thing you like. 

Voter. O, Sir, never fear but we shall find 
plenty of good victuals. 

[Exeunt into the next room. 
Manet Charlotte, %cho comes forward. 

Char. La, how I should like to be a queen, 
and stand in my robes, and have all the peo- 
ple introduced to me I for then they would 
kiss no more than my hand, which 1 should 
hold out so. No, no; it should be so. (stretch- 
ing out her liand whilst Charles Baltimore, 

entering behind and overhearing her, takes 

and kisses it with a ludicrous bending of the 

knee.) 

Charles. And which should be kissed so.' 

Char, (affectedly.) You are always so silly, 
Mr. Charles Baltimore. 

Charles. Are you holding court here for all 
those good folks.' I thought there was no 
harm in looking in upon you, though I do be- 
long to the other side, (jjecping.) Faitli they 
are busy enough ! mercy on us, what a clat- 
tering of trenchers ! How do you like them .' 

Char. Oh they are such savages ; I'm sure 
if I liad not put lavender on my pocket hand- 
kerchief, like Mama, I should have fainted 
away. 

Charles. How can you talk of fiiinting witli 
cheeks like two cabbage roses.' 

Char. Cabbage roses ! 

Charles. No, no — pest take it ! — I mean the 
pretty, delicate damask rose. 

Char. La, now you are flattering me ! 

Charles. I am not, indeed, Charlotte ! you 
have the prettiest — (peeping at the other room, 
and stopping short.) 

Char, (eagerly.) I have the prettiest what .-* 

Charles. Is that a venison pasty they have- 
got yonder ? 

Char. Poo, never mind ! — I have th6 pret- 
tiest what .' 

Charles. Yes, I mean the most bcautifuf 
(peeping again.) By mj^ faith and so it is a 
venison pasty, and a monstrous good smell it 
has ! [Exit hastily into the eating room. 

Cliar. (looking after him.) What a nasty 
creature he is ! he has no more sense than one 
of our pointers; he's always running after a 
good smell. [Exit. 

Scene II. — an open lane near a 

COUNTRY TOWN. 

Enter Baltimore, who passes half way across 
the stage, and then stopping suddenly, shrinks- 
back. 

Bait. Ha, it is him ! — I'll turn and go anoth- 
er way. (Turns hastily back again, and then 



THE ELECTION . A. COMEDY. 



119 



stops short.) No, no, he sha'n't see me avoid- 
ing him. I'll follow Truebridge's advice, and 
be civil to him. — 

Enter Freeman bowing with stiff civility. 
Good morning, Sir. 

Frfic. And the same to you, Mr. Baltimore : 
hov/ does your Lady do ? 

Bali. And your amiable lady, Mr. Freeman .'' 
she is a great scholar, I hear. 

Free, {loitk Ids face brightened upS) You are 
very good to say so ; she does indeed know 
some i'cw things pretty well ; and though we 
are rivals for the present, why shouldn't we 
act liberally and speak handsomely of one 
anotlier at the same time ? Does Mrs. Balti- 
more like pine-apples as well as she used to 
do.' 

Bait, {shrinking hack.) No, she dislikes them 
very much. 

Free. Don't say so now! I believe you don't 
like me to send them to you ; but if you would 
just send over for tliem yourself when she 
wants them, I have mountains of them at her 
service. 

Bait, (icith a contemptuous smile.) Shall I 
send a tumbrel for them to-morrow morning .' 
(Free, draics back piqued.) But you are liberal 
to every body, Mr. Freeman. I hope you and 
your friends have got over the fatigues of 
your morning feast .'' You were at it by times, 
I hear. 

Free. Yes, we have been busy in the eating 
and drinking way, to be sure. I don't make 
speeches to them, and fill their heads with 
fine oratorj' ; I give them from my plain 
stores what they like better, Mr. Baltimore. 

Bait. And what you can spare better, Mr. 
Freeman. It is fortunate for both parties, 
that your stores are more applicable to the 
stomach than the head. 

Free. It is better at least, than flattering 
them up with advertisements in the news- 
papers, about their great dignity and antiquity, 
&c. I don't spend my money in feeding oth- 
er people's vanity. 

Bait. No, certainly. Sir ; charity begins at 
home ; and your own has, thank God ! a very 
good appetite. 

Free. Pamper'd vanity is a better thing, 
perhaps, than starved pride. Good mornino-, 
Sir. [Exit. 

Bait, {looking after him.) See how conse- 
quentially he walks now, shaking his long coat 
skirts with that abominable swing ! I should 
detest my own brother if he swung liimself 
about after that manner. — Resemblance to him 
do they say ! I could lock myself up in a cell, 
if I thought so, and belabour my own shoul- 
ders with a cat-o'-nine tails. 

Enter Peter with one of his idle companions, 
and starts back upon seeing Baltimore. 

Pet. {aside to his Com.) Pest take it ! a 
body can never be a little comfortable in a sly 
way, but there is always some cross luck hap- 
pens to him. Yonder is my master, and he 
ihinks I am half a dgzen miles off with a let- 



ter that he gave me to 'Squire Houndly. 
Stand before me, man: perhaps he'll go past. 
{skulking behind his Com.) 

Bait, {seeing him.) What, you careless ras- 
cal, are you here still, when I told you the 
letter was of consequence to me ^ To have 
this stick broke over your head is less than 
you deserve : where have you been, sirrah! 
(Holdingvp his stick in a threatening manner.) 

Pet. O Lord ! your honour, if you should 
beat me like stock-fish I must e'en tell you 
the truth : for as I passed by the cat and bag- 
pipes a little while ago, I could not help just 
setting my face in at the door to see what 
they were all about ; and there I found such 
a jolly company of 'Squire Freeman's voters, 
sitting round a bowl of punch, drinking his 
liqviors and laughing at his grandeur, and 
making such a mockery of it, that I could not 
help staying to make a little merry v/ith them 
myself. 

Bait, {lowering his stick.) Art thou sure 
that they laughed at him .'' — In his own inn, 
and over his own liquor .' 

Pet. Ay, to be sure, your honour : what do 
they care for that ? When he orders a hogs- 
head of ale for them out of his own cellar, 
they call it a pack of lamb's wool from the 
wool chamber. Don't they, neighbour ? {tip- 
ping the wink to his Companion.) 

Com. To be sure they do. 

Bait. Ha, ha, ha ! ungrateful merry var- 
lets ! — Well, well 1 get thee along, and bo 
more expeditious with my letters another 
time, {to himself as he goes orit.) Ha, ha! a 
good name for his ale truly. [Exit. 

Pet. I wonder he did not give me a little 
money now, for such a story as this. How- 
somever, it has saved my head from being 
broke. 

Com. And that,I think is fully as much as 
it is worth. I wonder you an't ashamed to 
behave with so little respect to a gentleman, 
and your own master. 

Pet. Fiddle faddle with all that ! do you 
think one gets on the blind side of a man to 
treat him with respect ? When I first came 
to live witli Mr. Baltimore, I must say, I was 
woundily afraid of his honour, but I know 
how to manage him now well enough. 

Com. I think thou dost, indeed. Who 
would have thought it, that had seen what a 
bumkin he took thee from the plough's tail, but 
a twelvemonth ago, because he could not af- 
ford to hire any more fine trained servants to 
wait upon him .'' 

Pet. Nay, [ wa'n't such a simpleton as you 
took me for neither. I was once before that 
very intimate, in my fashion, with an old 
'Squire of the North Country, who was in 
love with his grand-daughter's dairy-maid. I 
warrant you 1 know well enough how to deal 
with any body that has got any of them 
strange fancies working within them ; for as 
great a bumpkin as you may take me to be ; 
and if you don't see me, ere long time goes 
by, make a good penny of it too, I'll give 



120 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



you leave to call me a noodle. Come away 
to the Blue- Posts again, and have another 
glass, man. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — freeman's library fit- 
ted UP EXPENSIVELY WITH FINE 
SHOWY BOOKS AND BOOK-CASES, &C. 

&C. 

Enter Freeman and Mrs. Freeman, speaking 
as tliey enter. 

Free. They sh'a'nt come again, then, since 
it displeases you ; but they all went away in 
such good humour, it did my heart good to 
see them. 

Mrs. F. Oh the Goths and the Huns ! I 
believe the smell of their nauseous tobacco 
will never leave my nostrils. You don't 
know what I have suffered to oblige you. To 
any body of delicacy and refmenrent, it was 
shocking. I shall be nervous and languid 
for a month. But I don't complain, ^ou 
know I do every thing cheerfully that can 
promote your interest. Oh ! I am quite over- 
come, {sits doivn languidly.) 

Free. Indeed, my dear, I know you never 
complain, and I am sorry I have imposed 
such a task upon your goodness. But the 
adversary gains ground upon us, and if I do 
not exert myself, the ancient interest of the 
Baltimores — tlie old prejudice of family, may 
still carry the day. 

Mrs. F. (starling up eagerly and throioing 
aside her assumed languor.) That it sha'nt 
do, if gold a id activity can prevent it ! Old 
prejudice of family ! Who has a better right 
than yourself to serve for the borough of Wes- 
town ? 
"'Free. So you say, my dear; and you are 

fenerally in the right. But I don't know : 
don't feel as if! did altogether right in op- 
posing Mr. Baltimore, in his own person, in 
the very spot where his family has so long 
presided. If he did not provoke me — 

Mrs. F. What, have you not got over these 
scruples yet .' Has not all the rancorous op- 
position you have met with from him wound 
you up to a liigher pitch than this, Mr. Free- 
man .' It has carried you thro' with many 
petty struggles against his proud will alrea- 
dy, and would you let him get the better of 
you now ? 

Free, {thoughtfully.) I could have wished 
to have lived in peace with him. 

Mrs- F. Yes, if he would have suffered 
you 

Free. Ay, indeed, if he would have suffer- 
ed me. {mussing for sonic time.) Well, it is 
very extraordinary this dislike which he seems 
to have taken to me ; it is inexplicable ! I 
came into his neighbourhood with the strong- 
est dtisirc to be upon good terms with, nay 
to be upon tiie most friendly and familiar 
footing with him ; yet he very soon opposed 
me in every thing, {walking up and down 
ajid then stopping short.) I asked him to dine 
with me almost every day. just as one would 
ask their oldest and most intimate acquaint- 



ance ; and he knew very well I expected no 
entertainments in return, which would have 
been a foolish expense in his situation, for 1 
took care in the handsomest manner to let liim 
understand as much. 

Mrs. F. Well, well, never trouble your 
head about that now, but think how you may 
be revenged upon him. 

Free. Tho' his fortune was reduced, and I 
in possession of almost all the estates of the 
Baltimores, of more land, indeed, than they 
ever possessed, I was always at pains to assure 
him that 1 respected him as much as the 
richest man in the country ; and yet, I can- 
not understand it, the more friendly and fa- 
miliar I was with him, the more visibly his 
aversion to me increased. It is past all com 
prehension ! 

Mrs. F. Don't trouble yourself about that 
now. 

Free. I'm sure I was ready upon every oc- 
casion to offer him my very best advice, and,^ 
after the large fortune I have acquired, I may 
be well supposed to be no novice in many 
things. 

Mrs. F. 0,he has no sense of obligations. 

Free. Ay, and knowing how narrow his 
income is in respect to the style of living he 
has been accustomed to ; when company came 
upon him unexpectedly, have 1 not sent and 
offered him every thing in my house, even to 
the best wines in my cellars, which he has 
pettishly and absurdly refused .' 

Mrs. F. O, he has no gratitude in him ! 

Free. If I had been distant, and stood upon 
the reserve with him, there might have been 
some cause. Well, it is altogether inexpli- 
cable ! 

Mrs. F. I'm sure it is not worth while to 
think so much about it. 

Free. Ah, but I can't help thinking ! Have 
I not made the ground round his house, as 
well as my own, look like a well-weeded gar- 
den ? I have cut dov/n the old gloomy trees ; 
and where he used to see nothing from his 
windows but a parcel of old knotted oaks 
shaking themselves in the wind, he now looks 
upon two hundred rood of the best hot-walls 
in the North of England, besides two new 
summer-houses and a green-house. 

Mrs. F. O, he has no taste ! 

Free. The stream which I found running 
thro' the woods, as shaggy and as wild as if 
it had been in a desert island, and the foot of 
man never marked upon its banks, I have 
straightened, and levelled, and dressed, till 
the sides of it are as nice as a bowling-green. 

Mrs. F. He has no more taste than a sav- 
age ; that's certain. However, you must allow 
that he wants some advantages, which you 
possess : his wife is a woman of no refinement. 

Free. I don't know what you mean by re- 
finement : She don't sing Italian and play 
upon the harp, I believe ; but she is a very 
civil, obliging, good, reasonable woman. 

Mrs. F. {contemptuously.) Yes, she is a 
very civil, obliging, good, reasonable woman. 
I wonder how some mothers can neglect the 



THE ELECTION ; A COMEDY. 



121 



education of their children so ! If she had 
been iny daughter, I should have made a very 
different thing of her, indeed. 

Free. 1 doubt notliing, my dear, of your 
good instructions and example. But here 
comes Jenkinson. 

Enter Jenkinson. 

How now, Jenkinson ? things go on pros- 
perously, I hope. 

Jen. Sir, I am concerned — or, indeed, sorry 
— that is to say, I wish I could have the sat- 
isfaction to say that they do. 

Free. Wliat say you ^ sorry and satisfied .' 
You are a smooth spoken man, Mr. Jenkinson ; 
but tell me the ^vorst at once. I thought 1 
had been pretty sure of it, as the poll stood 
this morning. 

Jen. It would have given me great pleasure, 
Sir, to have confirmed that opinion ; but un- 
fortunately for you, and unpleasantly for my- 
self— 

Free. Tut, tut, speak faster, man ! What 
is it .' 

Jen. An old gentleman from Ensford, who 
formerly received favours from Mrs. Balti- 
more's father, has come many a mile across 
the country, out of pure good will, to vote for 
him, with ten or twelve distant voters at his 
heels; and this, I am free to confess, is a 
thing that was never taken into our calcula- 
tion. 

Free. That was very wrong^tho' : we should 
have taken every thing into our calculation. 
Shall I lose it, think you ^ I would rather lose 
ten thousand pounds. 

Mrs. F. Yes, Mr. Freeman, that is spoken 
like yourself. 

Jen. A smaller sum than that, I am almost 
sure — that is to say, I think I may have the 
boldness to promise, would secure it to you. 

Free. How so .-' 

Jen. Mr. Baltimore, you know, has many 
unpleasant claims upon him. 

Free. Debts, you mean|: but what of that ? 

Jen. Only that I can venture to assure you, 
many of his creditors would have the greatest 
pleasure in life in obliging me. And when 
you have bought up their claims, it will be a 
very simple matter just to have him laid fast 
for a little while. The disgrace of that situ- 
ation will effectually prevent the last days 
of the poll from preponderating in his favour. 
It is the easiest thing in the world. 

Free, (shrinkinir back from Iiirn.) Is that 
your scheme ? O fie, fie ! the rudest tongued 
lout in the parish would have blushed to pro- 
pose it. 

Mrs. F. If there should be no other alter- 
native .'' 

Free. Let me lose it then i To be a mem- 
ber of Parliament, and not an honest man ! 

fie, fie, fie ! 

(walking up and down, much disturbed.) 
Jen. To be sure — indeed it must be con- 
fessed, gentlemen have different opinions on 
these subjects ; and I am free to confess, that 

1 have great pleasure, upon this occasion, in 

15 



submitting to your better judgment. An" 
now. Sir, as I am sorry to be under the ne- 
cessity of hurrying away from you upon an 
affair of some consequence to myself, will you 
have the goodness to indulge me with a few 
moments' attention, just whilst I mention to 
you what I have done in regard to Southern- 
down church-yard .' 

Free. Well, it is my duty to attend to that. 
Have you ordered a handsome monument to 
be put up to my father's memory P Ay, to the 
memory of John Freeman, the weaver. They 
reproach me with being the son of a mechan- 
ic ; but I will shew them that I am not 
ashamed of my origin. Ay, every soul of 
them shall read it, if they please, " erected to 
his memory by his dutiful son," &c. 

Jen. Yes, Sir, I have ordered a proper 
stone, with a neat plain tablet of marble. 

Free. A plain tablet of marble ! that is not 
what I meant. I'll have it a large and a 
handsome thing, with angels, and trumpets, 
and deaths' heads upon it, and every thing 
that a good handsome monument ought to 
have. Do you think I have made a fortune 
like a prince to have my father's tombstone 
put off with a neat plain tablet ? 

Mrs. F. Now, my dear, you must allow 
me to know rather moi'e in matt'^rs of taste 
than yourself; and I assure you a plain tablet 
is the genteelest and handsomest thing that 
can be put upon it. 

Free. Is it ? 

Mrs. F. Indeed is it. And as for the in- 
scription about his dutiful son and all that, I 
think it would be more respectful to have it 
put into Latin. 

Free. Very well ; if it is but handsome 
enough, I don'tcare; so pray, Jenkinson, write 
again, and desire them to put a larger tablet, 
and to get the Curate to make the inscription, 
with as much Latin in it as he can conve- 
niently put together. I should be glad, like- 
wise, if you would write to the Vicar of 
Blackmorton to send me the register of my 
baptism : I shall want it by and by, on ac- 
count of some family affairs. 

Jen. I shall have the greatest pleasure in 
obeying your commands. Good day ! [Exit. 

Free. Where is the state of the poll, and 
the list of the out-standing voters .' 

Mrs. F. Come to my dressing-room, and 
I'll shew you exactly how every thing stands. 
You won't surely give up your point for a 
little— 

Free. What do you mean to say .' 

Mrs. F. Nothing — nothingatall. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Baltimore's house. 

Enter Baltimore, followed by David, and 
speaking as he enters. 

Bait. And so the crowd gave three cheers 
when good old Humphries tottered up to the 
hustings to give his vote, as he declared, for 
the grandson of his old benefactor, Mr. Le- 
gender Baltimore ? I should have liked to 
have seen it. 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



Dav O, your honour, they gave three such 
hearty cheers ! and oki goody Robson clapped 
her [tMj( withered hands till the tears run 
over her .-yes. 

Bait. Did she so ? She shall be remembered 
for this ! I saw her little grandson running 
about the other day barefooted — he shall run 
about barefooted no longer. — And so my 
friends begin to wear a bolder face upon it ? 

Dav. Yes, Sir, they begin to look main 
pert upon it now. 

Bait. Well, David, and do thou look pert 
upon it too. There's something for thee. 
( Gives him money. Jl noise of laughing heard 
without.) Who is that without.'' is it not 
Peter's voice .' Ho, Peter ! 

Enter Peter, followed by Nat. 

What were you laughing at there .'' 
Pet. {loith a. broad grin) Only, Sir, at 
Squire Freeman, he, he, he ! who was riding 
up the Backlane, a little while ago, on his 
new crop-eared hunter, as fast as he could 
canter, with all the skirts of his coat flapping 
about him, for all the world like a clucking 
hen upon a sow's back, he, he, he ! 

Bait, (loith his face brightening) Thou art 
pleasant, Peter ; and what then .'' 

Pet. When just turning the corner, your 
honour, as it might be so, my mother's brown 
calf, bless its snout ! I shall love it for it as 
long as I live, set its face through the hedge, 
and said " Mow !" 

Bait, {eagerly.) And he fell, did he.'' 
Pet. O Lord, yes, your honour ! into a 
good soft bed of all the rotten garbage of the 
village. 

Bait. And you saw this, did you .' 
Pet. O yes, your honour, as plain as the 
nose on my face. 

Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! and you really 
saw it .' 

David, {aside to Nat.) 1 wonder my master 
can demean himself so as to listen to that 
knave's tales : I'm sure he was proud enough 
once. 

Bait, {still laughijig.) You really saw it ? 
Pet. Ay, your honour, and many more 
than me saw it. Didn't tlrey, Nat .-" 

Bait. And there were a number of people 
to look at him too .'' 

Pet. Oh ! your honour, all the rag tag of 
the parish were grinning at him. Wa'nt 
they, Nat ? 

Bait. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! this is excellent ! 
ha, ha, ha ! He would shake himself but 
ruefully before them {slill laughing violently.) 
Pet. Ay, Sir, he shook the wet straws and 
the withered turnip-tops from his back. It 
would have done your heart good to have 
seen him. 

Dav. Nay, you know well enough, you do, 
that there is nothing but a bank of dry sand 
in that corner, {witlisome indignation to Vet.) 
Bait, {impatirnlly to David.) Poo, silly fel- 
low ! it is the dirtiest nook in the village!. — 
And he rose and shook himself, ha, ha, ha ! 



(laughing still violently.) I did not know that 
thou wert such a humourous fellow, Peter. 
Here is money for thee to drink the brown 
calfs health. 

Pet. Ay, your honour, for certain he shall 
have a noggen. 

Dav. {aside) To think now that he should 
demean himself so ! 

Enter Mrs. Baltimore. 

Mrs. B. {aside to Bait.) Mr. Freeman is at 
the door : should you wish to receive him .' I 
hurried to give you notice. Will it be disa- 
greeable to you .'' 

Bait. O, not at all. Let him in, by all 
means ! {to the servants) I am at home. 

[Exeunt servants. 

Mrs. B. Now, this is as it should be, my 
dear Baltimore. I like to see you in this good 
temper of mind. 

Bait. Say no more about that. Things go 
on prosperously with me at present : there is 
a gleam of sunshine thrown across us. 

Enter Freeman and Charles Baltimore. 

{To Free.) Good morning, Sir : a very good 
morning to you. 

Free. I thank you, Mr. Baltimore. You 
see I take, notwithstanding all that is going 
on between us at present, the liberty of a 
neighbour. 

Bult. {smiling.) O, no apology. Sir ! I am 
very glad to see you. This is a fine morning 
for riding on horseback, Mr. Freeman: I hope 
you have enjoyed it. 

Free, (aside to Char.) How gracious he is ! 
We are certainly come in a lucky moment. 

Char. He is in a monstrous good humour 
certainly ; now is the time to manage him. 
{aside to Free.) 

Free. I am much obliged to you, Sir, for 
this good neighbourly reception ; and I flatter 
myself you will think I am come on a neigh- 
bourly visit too. 

Bait. O certainly. Sir, but let us talk a lit- 
tle more of this fine morning ; it is really a very 
fine morning for riding on horseback : How 
does your crop-eared hunter do .'' 

Free. Eating his oats, I dare say, very con- 
tentedly. All my horses are pretty well off: 
I buy the best oats in the country for them, 
and I pay the best price for them too. They 
are not, to be sure, so well lodged as they shall 
be. My architect has just given me in his 
plan for my new stables : two thousand pounds 
is the estimate, and 1 suppose I must allow 
him to go a little beyond it, to have every 
thing handsome and complete. That is my 
way. Will you look at the plan .'' {taking a 
plan from his pocket.) 

Bait, {drawing back with disgust.) I have 
no taste for arcliitecture. 

Free. That is a ])ity now, for it is really a 
complete thing. By the bye, are you notgo- 
intr to do something to the roof of your offices 
soon .' They'll be down about your ears pres- 
ently, and the longer you delay that job, the 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



123 



heavier it will be when it comes, (aside to 
Charles, on seeing Bait, bite his lips and turn 
away from him.) What is the matter with 
him now ? 

Char, (aside.) Only a little twitching at his 
heart : it will soon be off again. 

Mrs. Bait, (aside to Bait.) For heaven's 
sake don't let this discompose you ; his absurd- 
ity makes me laugh. 

Bait, (aside.) Does it.' I did not see you 
laugh. Well, I am a fool to mind it thus. 
(going up to Free, with affected good humour.) 
1 am glad to hearyour horses are to be lodged 
in a manner suitable to their owner's dignity. 
But you are the best horseman too, as well as 
the best horse-master, in the county, though 
your modesty prevents you from talking of it. 

Free. O dear. Sir ! I am but middling in 
that way. 

Bait. Fray don't let your diffidence wrong 
you. What do you jockeys reckon the best 
v/ay of managing a fiery mettled steed, when 
a brown calf sets his face through the hedge, 
and says " Mow .■' " 

Free. Ha, ha, ha ! faith, you must ask your 
friend Mr. Saunderson that question. His 
crop-eared horse has thrown him in the lane 
a little while ago, and he has some experience 
in the matter. As for myself, I have the 
rheumatism in my arm, and I have not been 
on horseback for a week. (Bait. looJis morti- 
fied and disappointed.) 

Mrs. B. (to Free.) He is not hurt, I hope ? 

Free. No, Madam ; he mounted again and 
rode on. 

Char. It was no fault of the horse's neither, 
if the goose had but known how to sit on his 
back. He has as good blood in him as any 
horse in — 

Free. No, no, Charles ! not now if you 
please, (going up frankly to Bait.) And 
now. Sir, that we have had our little laugh 
together, and it is a long time, it must be con- 
fessed, since we have had a joke together — 
ha, ha, ha ! I like a little joke with a friend as 
well as any man — ha, ha, ha ! 

Bait, (retreating as Free, advances.) Sir. 

Free. But somehow you have been too cer- 
emonious with me, Mr. Baltimore, and Fm 
sure I have ahvays wished you to consider 
me as a neighbour, that would be willing to do 
you a kind office, or lend you or any of your 
family a lift at any time. 

(still advancing familiarhj to Bait.) 

Bait, (still retreating.) Sir, you are very 
gracious. 

Free. So, as I said, since we have had our 
little joke together, Fll make no more preface 
about it, my good neighbour, (still advancing 
as Bait, retreats, till he gets him close to the 
wall, and then, putting out his hand to take hold 
of him by the buttons, Bait, shrinks to one side 
and puts up his arm to defend himself) 

Bait, (hastily.) Sir, there is no button here ! 
(recovering himself, and pointing in a stately 
manner to a chair.) Do me the honour, Sir, to 



be seated, and then I shall hear what you 
have to say. 

Free, (offended.) No, Sir, I perceive that 
the shorter I make my visit here the more ac- 
ceptable it will be ; I shall therefore say what 
I have to say, upon my legs, (assuming conse- 
quence.) Sir, I have by my interest, and some 
small degree of influence which I believe I 
may boast of possessing in the country, pro- 
cured the nomination of a young man to a 
creditable and advantageous appointment in 
the East Indies. If you have no objection, I 
bestowit upon your relation, here, Mr. Charles 
Baltimore, of whom I have a very good opin- 
ion. 

Bait. Sir, I am at a loss to conceive how 
you should take it into your head to concern 
yourself in the affiiirs of my family. If Mr. 
Charles Baltimore chooses to consider him- 
self as no longer belonging to it, he may be 
glad of your protection. 

Mrs. B. My dear Mr. Baltimore, how 
strangely you take up this matter ! Indeed, Mr. 
Freeman, you are very good : and pray don't 
believe that we are all ungrateful. 

Bait, (angrily to Charles.) And you have 
chosen a patron, have you.'' 

Char. I'm sure I did not think — I'm sure 
I should be very glad — I'm sure I don't know 
what to do. 

Free. Good morning, Madam: I take ray 
leave, (slightly to Bait.) Good morning. 

[Exit. 

Char. I'm sure I don't know what to do. 

Mrs. B. Whatever you do, I hope you will 
have the civility, at least, to see that worthy 
man dovi^n stairs, and thank him a hundred 
times ever for his goodness. 

Char. That I will. [Exit hastily. 

Mrs. B. Oh, Baltimore ! how could you 
treat any body so, that came to you with of- 
fers of kindness ? 

Bait, (striding up and down.) What would 
you have had me do .' what would you have 
had me do. Madam .•' His abominable fingers 
were within two inches of my nose. 

J^lrs. B. Oh, Baltimore, Baltimore ! 

Bait. Leave me, Madam ! [Exit Mrs. B. 
with her handkerchief to tier eyes. 
(He still St) ides up and down ; then stopping 

suddenly to listen.) 
He's not gone yet ! I hear his voice still! 
That fool, with some cursed nonsense or 
other, is detaining him still in the hall ! It is 
past all endurance ! Who waits there .' 

Enter Peter. 
What, dost thou dare to appear before me with 
that serpent's tongue of thine, sloughed over 
with lies ? You dare to bring your stories to 
me, do you.'' (shaking him violently by the 
collar.) 

Pet. Oh! mercy, mercy, your honour I I'm 
sure it was no fault of mine that it was not 
'Squire Freeman that fell. I'm sure I did all 
I could to make him. 

Bait. Do what thou can'st now, then, to 



124 



THE ELECTION i A COMEDY. 



save lliy knave's head from the wall. 
{Tkniining Peter violently from kirn,, after 

skakiiiir him well ; and Exit into an inner 

room, flapping the door behind him tvith 

great force.) 

Pet. {ibfter looking ruefully and scratching 
his head for some time.) Well, I sees plainly 
enough that a body who tells lies should look 
two or three \va.ys on every side of him before 
he begins. [Exit very ruefully. 



ACT III. 



Scene I. — mrs. Baltimore's dressing- 
room. SHE IS DISCOVERED SITTING 
BV A TABLE, LOOKING OVER PAPERS. 

Mrs. B. Well, I have the satisfaction to 
find that my personal expenses, for this last 
year, have been very moderate ; but I am re- 
solved they shall be still more contracted. 
Though ruin, I fear, cannot be averted, yet, 
when it does come, 1 can lift up my unblush- 
ing head, and say, '• this is no work oi" mine." 
No foolisii debts of my contracting, Baltimore, 
shall add to the number of those claims that 
already so gallingly press upon your proud 
and irritable mind ; and will, perhaps, in the 
end, drive you from the long and fondly re- 
tained habitation of your forefathers. 
(Leans pensively upon her arm for some time, 

then continues to look over more jiapers.) 

Enter Charles, with a slow sauntering step. 

Char. Let me see what o'clock it is now. 
What says my watch to it now ? {looking at 
his watch.) Pest take it ! it is but ten minutes 
since I look'd last ; and I could have sworn 
it was as good three quarters, or, at least, half 
an hour, as ever clock tick'd, or ever sand- 
glass ran. {yawning and stretching himself.) 
Ah ! I find it has been but half and hour of 
a weary man's reckoning ; who still sees two 
long long periods, ycleped hours, lying be- 
tween him and his dinner, like a dreary length 
of desert waste before the promised land. 
{yawning and stretching again.) My fishing 
tackle is all broke and destroyed, and 'Squire 
Sapling has borrowed my pointer. I have 
sat shaking my legs upon the corn-cliest, till 
every horse in tlie stable is rubbed down, and 
the groom, happy dog ! has gone with his 
broom in his hand, to sweep out the yard and 
the kennel. O dear ! O dear ! O dear ! 
What shall I do .' 

Mrs. B. (rising fro7n the table.) Poor man ! 
1 pity you with all my heart ; but I do think 
I could contrive to find employment for you, 
if you are inclined to it. 

Char. Yes, yes I I am inclined to it ! Idle- 
ness is tiresome enough. God wot ! I am in- 
clined to it, be what it will. But what is it 
tho'.' Have you any skanes of thread to wind ? 

Mrs. B. No, something better than that, 
Charles. 

Char. What, card-boxes to paste .' 



Mrs. B. Something better than that too. 

Char. Poetry or advertisements to cut out 
of the news-paper .-" 

Mrs. B. No, no, something better than all 
these. 

Char, (eagerly.) It is some new employ- 
ment then. 

Mrs. B, Yes, Charles, a very new one in- 
deed. What would you think of taking up a 
book and reading an hour before dinner i' 

Char, (disappointed.) Pshaw ! is that your 
fine employment .'' I thought I was really to 
have something to do. Ill e'en go to the vil- 
lage again, and hear stories from old Margery, 
about the election and the old family grandeur 
of the Baltimores. 

Mrs. B. Nay, don't put such an affront up- 
on my recommendation. Do take up this book, 
and try, for once in your life, what kind of a 
thing reading quietly for an hour to one's self 
may be. I assure you there are many good 
stories in it, and you will get some little 
insight into the affairs of mankind, by the 
bye. 

Char. No, no ; no story read can ever be 
like a story told by a pair of moving lips, and 
their two lively assistants the eyes, looking it 
to you all the while, and supplying every de- 
ficiency of words. 

Mrs. B. But try it, only try it. You can't 
surely be so ungallant as to refuse me. (Gives 
him a book.) 

Char. Well then, since it must be so, shew 
me where to begin. Some people, when they 
open a book, can just pop upon a good thing 
at once, and be diverted with it; but, I don't 
know how it is, whenever I open a book, I 
can light upon nothing but long dry prefaces 
and dissertations; beyond which, perhaps, 
there may lie, atlast, some pleasant story, like 
a little picture closet at the end of a long stone 
gallery, or like a little kernel buried in a great 
mountain of shells and of husks. I would not 
take the trouble of coming at it for all that 
one gets. 

Mrs. B. You shall have no trouble at all. 
There is the place to begin at. Sit down, then, 
and make no more objections, (points out the 
place, and returns to her papers again.) 
(Charles sits down with his book : reads a little, 

icith one arm dangling over the back of the 

chair ; then changes his position, and reads 

a little ichile with the other arm over the back 

of the chair; tlien changes his position again, 

and, after rubbing his legs with his book 

hand, continues to read a little more; then 

he stops, and brushes some dust off his breeches 

with his elboio.) 

Mrs. B. (observing him and smiling.) How 
does the reading go on.'' 

Cluir. Oh, pretty well ; 1 shall finish the 
page presently, (he reads a little longer, still 
fidgeting about, and then starting up from his 
scat.) By the bye, that hound of a shoemaker 
has forgot to send home my new boots. I 
must go and see after them. 

Mrs. B. What could possibly bring your 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



126 



boots into your mind at this time, I wonder ? 
Char. It is no wonder at all ; for whenever 
I begin to read, and that is not often, I con- 
fess, all the little odd things that have slipp'd 
out of my head for a month, are sure to come 
into it then. I must see after the boots tho'. 
Mrs. D. Not just now. 
Char. This very moment. There is no time 
to be lost. I must have them to-morrow at 
all events. Good bye to you. (looking to the 
window, as he passes on tmoards the door.) 
Ha ! there comes a visiter for you. 
Mrs. B. Who is it.' 

Char. It is Charlotte Freeman, walking 
very demurely, because she is within sight of 
the windows. 

Mrs. B. I am sorry she is come. I have 
-desired the servants to say I am from home. 
It is unpleasant to Mr. Baltimore to see any 

•part of tnat family, and I have promised 

no, no, I have you must go to inquire after 

jour boots, you say, {a gentle tap at the door.) 
Come in. 

Enter Charlotte. 

Charl. {going up affectionately to Mrs. B.) 
I thought you would let me in. (curtsey's 
affectedly to Charles. 

Mrs. B. Did the servants 

Charl. I saw no servants at all. I stole in 
by the little door of the shrubbery ; for I did 
not like to go in by the great gate, lest 1 
should meet JNIr. Baltimore : and he always 
looks so strangely at me — But I beg pardon ; 
I see I hurt you by saying so. 

Mrs. B. Have you walked far this morning ? 

Churl. Only so far to see you ; for you 
^eem'd unwell whon I saw you last, and I 
could not be happy till I inquired after you. 

Mrs. B. You are very good, my dear Char- 
.lotte, I am very well. 

Charl. (observing her embarrassed.) I fear 
I come unseasonably. 

Char. O, no ! we were just wishing for 
some good girl to come to us ; and when you 
go home again, I sliall have the honour of at- 
tending you. 

Charl. (affectedly.) No, I thank you, there 
is no occasion ; I know my way very well. 

Char. But I can shew you a better way, 
where there are fine sloes and blackberries 
on the hedges, if you have a mind to gather 
any. Eating sucii sweet fruit puts people 
into good humour and cures them of affecta- 
tion. 

Charl. (disdainfully.) I don't know what 
you mean, Sir, by your sloes and your black- 
berries, but I suppose you want to shew me 
the place where you cropt your black pup- 
py's ears the other day, and had your fingers 
well bit for your pains. I wonder whether 
you or the puppy were in the best humour 
upon that occasion. 

Char. Faith, the puppy and I were very 
much the better for a piece of your flounced 
furbelow, which we found upon the hedge, to 
bind up our wounds for us. For you have a 



great sense of justice, Miss Freeman ; you 
never take any thing off the bushes, without 
leaving something in return. 

Charl. And you, too, Mr. Charles, are a 
gentleman of great honesty ; for you would 
not take a bit of the poor dog's ears off, with- 
out leaving a bit of your own fingers in his 
mouth as an equivalent. 

Mrs. B. How comes it that you two are 
always quarrelling, and yet always coming in 
one another's way ? (to Char.) You forget : 
you must go and see after your boots. 

Char. O ! I can go to-morrow morning. 

Mrs. B. But there is not a moment to be 

lost : you must have them at all events, you 

know. No, no ; no lingering here : it is an 

errand of necessity. {pointing to the door.) 

[Exit Char, unwillingly. 

Charl. I'm glad you have sent him away, 
he is so forward and so troublesome. Per- 
haps I am a little so myself just now. If 
I am, don't make any ceremony of sending 
me off; for I see, my dear Mrs. Baltimore, 
your spirits are not so good as they used to 
be. O ! if I could do any thing to cheer them ! 
{Looking zcistfully at her.) 

Mrs. B. I thank you, my good girl ! you 
are not at all troublesome : you are very pleas- 
ant to me ; and if it depended upon myself, 
I should like that we were often together. 

Charl . (taking her hand wa.rvdy.) Should 
you.'' Well, and if it depended upon me, I 
should be always with you. I should go 
wherever you \vent, and do whatever you did, 
and wear the same caps and gowns that you 
wear, and look just as like you as I could. 
It is a sad thing that I can get to you so sel- 
dom, with those eternal lessons at home, and 
Mr. Baltimore's stern looks, which almost 
frighten me when I come here. Do you 
know I have often thought of writing to you, 
but then I don't know what to say. It is 
strange now ! I know ladi?s, who love one 
another, write such long letters to one another 
every day, and yet 1 don't know what to say. 

Mrs. B. And I have known, my dear Char- 
lotte, ladies who did not love one another, do 
just the same thing. 

Charl. Have you, indeed .' La, that is won- 
derful ! But don't you very often write long 
letters to the friends you love most .'' 

Mrs. B. Indeed I don't write very often, 
nor very long letters to any body ; and yet I 
have some friends whom 1 very dearly love. 

Charl. (taking Mrs. B.'s hand and skipping 
ahoid her.) O ! I am so glad to hear that ! I 
thought all dear friends wrote to one another 
every day, and that every body knew what 
to say but myself — When I am with Mama, 
I think it will be so difficult to become amia- 
ble and accomplished, as I ought to be, that I 
am quite discouraged ; but when I am with 
you, it appears so pleasant and so easy, that I 
am put quite into good spirits again. — But, 
no, no ! I do every thing so clumsily ! and 
you do every thing so well ! 

Mrs. B. Don't be so diffident of yourself, 



126 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



Charlotte : remember you are but fifteen, and 
I am Ibur-and-twenty. 

Ckari. I wonder liow I shall look when I 
am four-and-tvventy. I'm sure, notwith- 
standing all the pains both Mama and my 
Governess take with me, I don't think I look 
very well at present. 

Mrs. B. Nay, my good Charlotte, you look 
very well always, wlien you don't attempt to 
look too well. I hope to see you turn out a 
very agreeable woman. 

Cluirl. Do you think so ? I am to go to pub- 
lic places with Mama next winter ; and I have 
overheard her and my Governess whispering 
together as if I should have admirers coming 
about me then. But I don't tliink 1 shall. 
Do you think so .' 

Mrs. B. {smiling.) Indeed,^! can't say : per- 
haps you may, and it is possible you may 
not; but the less you think of them, the more 
you will probably have. 

Churl. I'm sure I think very little about 
them. And yet I can't help fancying to my- 
self sometimes, how I shall behave to them. 

Mrs. B. Ah ! that is but a poor way of employ- 
ing your fancy. Don't think too much about 
admirers : they won't admire you the more 
for that. 

Ckarl. But I won't let them know that I 
think about them. 

Mrs. B. But they will find it out. 

Charl. Ha ! but I will hold myself very 
high indeed, and not seem to care a farthing 
for one of them. 

Mrs. B. But they will find it out, neverthe- 
less. 

Charl. I'm sure I have heard that the young 
men now-a'-days are no great conjurers. 

Mrs. B. That may be very true ; but they 
are all conjurers enough to find that out, 
though better things should escape their pen- 
etration, {loith some alarm.) I hear Mr. Bal- 
timore coming. 

Charl. You seem uneasy. Will he be an- 
gry to find me here .' 

Mrs. B. (muck embarrassed.) He will be sur- 
prised, perhaps; but he won't come here — he 
is only passing to the library, I hope. 

Charl. Ha ! but he is coming though ! 
(creeping behind Mrs. B.) He is just at the 
door. I will hide myself behind the open door 
of this cabinet, and do you stand before me 
till he goes away. 
(She skulks behind the door of an open cabinet, 

and^ Mrs. B. stands up close by her to conceal 

her completely.) 

Enter Baltimore. 

Bait. The tide is running against mc again ; 
and even my old servants, I have learnt, at 
this moment, are swilling themselves at the 
Cat and Bagpipes, witli the damn'd ale and 
roast-!)eef of mine adversary. I am going to 
my attorney immediately; if any person on 
business should call in my absence, detain 
him till I return. 

Mrs. B. Certainly. I wish you a pleasant 
ride. 1 think I shall take a little ramble pres- 



ently, but shall leave your orders with the scr 
vants. 

Bali. No, don't go out just now, I beg it of 
you. That little aftected jade of Freeman's 
is prowling about ; and I have already con- 
fessed to you, tliat it disturbs me to see you 
together. 

Mrs. B. Ah! you are prej udiced : you talk 
without knowing her. She is a sweet tem- 
pered, kind-hearted girl, and nature meant 
her for something very different from what 
she appears to be. (Charlotte behind, catches 
hold o/Mrs. B's hand, and kisses it.) 

Bait. Yes, nature meant herfor a clumsy — 

Mrs. B. Pray don't delay going to your 
attorney ! 

Bait. A clumsy hoiden only ; and, under 
the tuition of her ridiculous mother, she as- 
sumes all the delicate airs of a fine lady. 

Mrs. B. Well, well, go to your attorney : it 
is all very harmless. 

Bait. Well, well, it is all very harmless, if 
you will ; and I have laughed at a thousand 
little affected fools, nearly as absurd as herself. 
But when I see those broad features of her 
father, stamped so strongly by nature upon 
her common-place countenance, pretending 
t(i wear the conscious importance of superior 
refinement, it provokes me beyond all patience 
that you should be so intimate with her. 

Mrs. B. She is a girl that will very much 
improve by any reasonable intimacy, and will 
very soon become like the people she is with. 

Bah. Very well, let her be as little with 
you, then, and as much with her own foolish 
absurd mother as possible ; and the more ri- 
diculous they both are, the greater pleasure I 
shall have in seeing them any where but in 
your company. 1 assure you, I have no 
wish to reform them. It is one of the few 
consolations I receive in my intercourse with 
this man, to see him connected with such a 
couple of fools. 

Mrs. B. O Baltimore ! for heaven's sake 
stay no longer here ! 

Bah. Pray what is the meaning of this .' are 
you in your senses ! 

Mrs. B. Scarcel}', indeed, while you remain 
here, and talk thus. 

Bait. What, does it affect you to this pitch 
then .' Are you attached to that girl .'' 

Mrs. B. Indeed I am. (Charl. behind, 
catches Mrs. B's hand again, and kisses it very 
gratefully.) 

Bait. Well, Madam ; I see plainly enough 
the extent of your attachment to mc. (walk- 
ing up and doum vehemently.) Methinks it 
should have been offensive to you even to have 
stroked the very ears of his dog. And that 
excrescence, that wart, that tad pole, that vi^orm 
from the adder's nest, which 1 abhor. 

Mrs. B. For heaven's sake, go away ! you 
kill, you distract me ! 

Bait. Yes, yes, Madam ; I see plainly 
enough I am married to a woman who takes 
no common interest, who owns no sympathy 
with my feelings. 



THE ELECTION : A. COMEDY. 



127 



He turns upon Ms heel in anger to go away, 
whilst Charlotte springs from her hiding- 
place, and slipping softly after him, makes 
a motion with her foot as tf she would give 
him, a kick in the going out; upon tohich, 
Bait. tU7-ns suddenly round a7id sees her, 
{Shii stops short quite confounded. : and he 
glancing a, look of indignation at his wife, 
fixes his eyes sternly upon Charlotte, who, 
recoiling from him step by step, as he stern- 
ly froums upon her, throws herself at last up- 
on Mrs. B's 7ieck, and bursts into tears. Bait. 
then turns upon his heel angrily and F,xit.) 
Churl, (sobbing.) I shall never be able to 
look up again as long as I live. There never 
was any body like me ; for always when I 
wish to behave best, something or other comes 
across me, and I expose myself. I shall be so 
scorn'd and laugh'd at ! — I'll never enter this 
house any more — Oh ! oh ! oh ! Some devil 
put it into my head, and I could not help it. 
I'll go home again, and never come a visiting 
any more — Oh ! oh ! oh ! I am so disgraced ! 
Mrs. B. Be comforted, my dear Charlotte ! 
It was but a girl's freak, and nobody shall 
know any thing of it. But, indeed, you had 
better go home. 

Chart. Yes, I'll go home, and never return 
here any more. But, oh, my dear Mrs. Bal- 
timore, don't despise me ! 

Mrs. B. No, my dear girl, I love you as 
much as ever. 

Chart. Do you indeed ? And yet I must 
not come to 3'ou again. O, I shall wander 
every morning on the side of the little stream 
that divides your grounds from ours ; and if 
I could but see you sometimes on the oppo- 
site side, calling over to me, I should be hap- 
py ! It is so good in you to say that you love 
me ; for I shall never love myself any more. 
[Exeunt Mrs. B. soothing and comforting 
Charl. as they go off. 

Scene II. — a small anti-room in 
freeman's house. 

Enter Mrs. Freeman with letters in her hand. 

Mrs. F. (holding out her letters.) Pretty 
well, I think, for one day's post. I should 
write to mj'- dear Mrs. Languish too, if my 
extracts from Petrarch were ready. 

Enter Governess in great haste. 

Gov. O dear, Madame I I don't know what 
ting I shall do wit Miss Freeman. 

Mrs. F. What is the matter .' 

Gov. She come in, since a very little time 
from her walk, and I believe she be to see 
Madame Baltimore too, as drooping and as 
much out of spirit as a pair of ruffles wid de 
starch out of dem ; and she sit down so, {imi- 
tating her) quite frompish, and won't read 
her lesson to me, though I speak all de good 
words to her dat I can. 

Mrs. F. Well, go to her again, and I'll 
follow you immediately, and speak to her my- 
self [Exit Governess. 



(Mrs. F. after putting up her letters very 
leisurely, and looking at one or two of them, 
goes out.) 

Scene III. — charlotte is discovered 

SITTING IN A DISCONSOLATE POSTURE, 
ON A LOW STOOL IN THE MIDDLE OF 
THE room; the GOVERNESS STAND- 
ING ET HER, ENDEAVOURING TO 
SOOTHE AND COAX HER, WHILST SHE 
HITCHES AWAV FROM HER FRETFULLY, 
PUSHING HER STOOL TOWARDS THE 
FRONT OF THE STAGE EVERY TIME 
THE GOVERNESS ATTEMPTS TO SOOTHE 
HER. 

Gov. Do be de good young lady, now, and 
read over your lesson. 

Charl. Can't you let me alone for a mo- 
ment .-" I'm not in a humour just novv'. 

Gov. You be in de humours, but in de bad hu- 
mours, I see. I will put you in de good hu- 
mours. Look here ! Fal, lal, de laddy, daddy 
(singing fantastically.) Vv'^hy don't you smile, 
Miss .' You love dat air, don't you .'' (Putting 
her hand soothingly on Charlotte's shoulder, 
and grinning in her face.) 

Charl. (shaking off' Iter hand impatiently, 
turning her back to her, and sitting on the oth- 
er side of the stool.) I dont like it a bit. 

Gov. O, but you do ! And den de pretty, 
steps I shew'd you : if you would read your 
lesson, now, we should dance dem togeder. 
(singing and dancing some French steps fan- 
tastically.) Why don't you look at me .'' Don't 
it amuse you. Miss .'' 

Charl. What amusement is it to me, do 
you think, to see a pair of old fringed shoes 
clattering upon the boards .'' 

Gov. (shrugging her sho2ildcrs.) Mon Dieu ! 
she has no taste for any of the elegancies. 
(putting her hand upon Charlotte's shoulder 
coaxingly.) But if you don't speak well de 
French, and write well de French, de pretty 
fine gentlemans won't admire you. 

Charl. (shaking off her hand again, and 
turning from her to sit on the other side of the 
stool.) And what do I care for de pretty fine 
gentlemans, or de pretty fine ladies either .'' I 
wish there was not such a thing in the world 
as either of them. 

Gov. (casting up her eyes.) Mon Dieu ! She 
wish us all out ofde world. 

Charl. I'm sure I should live an easier life 
than I do, if there was not, — 

Enter Mrs, Freeman. 

J\[rs. F. What freak is this you have taken 
into your head. Miss Freeman, not to read 
with Ma'moiselle. It won't do, I assure you, 
to follow your own whimsies thus. You 
must study regularly and diligently, if you 
would ever become an elegant and accom- 
plished woman. 

Charl. I'm sure I shall never become either 
elegant or accomplished. Why need I scrawl 



128 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



versions eternally, and drum upon the piano- 
forte, and draw frightful figures till my fin- 
gers ache, and make jny very life irksome to 
me, when I know very well I shall never be 
better than a poor heedless creature, constant- 
ly forgetting and exposing myself, after all ? 
I know very well I shall never be either ele- 
gant or accomplished. 

Afrs. F. Why should you suppose so ? there 
is no merit in being too diffident. 

Gov. You should not tink so poor of your- 
self, Miss. You come on very well. Seve- 
ral lady say dat you are become so like to me 
in all de airs, and de grace, and de manners, 
dat you are quite odder ting dan you were. 

C/iarl. No wonder then that they laugh at me. 

Gov. (casting tip her eyes.) Mon Dieu ! 
She is mad ! shall 1 shut her up in her cham- 
ber.' 

Mrs. F. Stop a little, if you please : she 
does not speak altogether from the purpose 
neither. Come, come, Miss Freeman: rouse 
yourself up, and have some laudable ambi- 
tion : the distinction of elegant accomplish- 
ments is not to be obtained without industry 
and attention. 

Chart. I wish I were with some of the wild 
people that run in the woods, and know noth- 
ing about accomplishments ! I know I shall 
be a blundering creature all rny life, getting 
into scrapes that no body else gets into ; I 
know I shall. Why need I study my car- 
riage, and pin back my shoulders, and ham- 
per myself all day long, only to be laughed 
at after all .'' 

Mrs. F. I don't know what you may meet 
with when you chuse to visit by yourself, 
Miss Freeman ; but in my company, at least, 
you may be satisfied upon that score. 

Churl. And what satisfaction will it be to 
me that we are ridiculous together ? I would 
rather be laughed at alone than have people 
laughing at us both, as they do. 

Mrs. F. {loith amazement.) The creature 
is beside herself in good earnest ! What do 
you mean, child.' Who have you been with.' 
Who has put these things into your head .' If 
Mrs. Baltimi^re can find no better conversa- 
tion for you than this kind of insolent imperti- 
nence, she is poorly employed indeed. 

Chart. It was not Mrs. Baltimore that said 
so. 

Mrs. F. Who said so then .' somebody has, 
I find. 

Chart. It was Mr. Baltimore. 

Mrs. F. And you had the meanness to suf- 
fer such words in your presence .' 

Chart. It was not in my presence neither, 
for he did not see me. 

Mrs. F. And where was you then .' 

Chart. Just behind the train of Mrs. Balti- 
more's gown, till he should go out again. 

Mrs. F. And so you sneaked quietly in 
your hiding-place, and heard all this insolent 
abuse .' Mean creature ! a girl of any spirit 
whould have rushed out upon liim with in- 
dignation. 



Chart. And so did I rush out. 

Mrs. F. And what did you say to him .' 

Chart. (sillUij.) 1 did not say any thing. 

Mrs. F. 1 hope you resented it then, by 
the silent dignity of your behaviour. 

Chart, (mufh cmharrossed.) I'm sure I don't 
know — I did but give him a little make-be- 
lieve kick with my slipper, as he went out at 
the door, wher he turned round of a sudden, 
with a pair of terrible eyes staring upon me 
like the Great Mogul. 

Mrs. F. A make-believe kick ! what do 
you mean by that ? 

Chart. La ! just a kick on — on — 

Mrs. F. On what, child .' 

Chart. La ! just upon his coat behind as he 
went out at the door. 

Mrs. F. And did you do that ? Oh ! it is 
enough to make one mad! You are just fit 
to live with the Indians, indeed, or the wild 
Negroes, or the Hottentots ! To disgrace your- 
self thus, after all the pains I have taken 
with you ! It is enough to drive one mad ! 
Go to your room directly, and get sixteen 
pages of blank verse by rote. But I'm sure- 
you are fitter company for the pigs than the 
poets. 

■* Chart. How was I to know that he had 
eyes in the back of his neck, and could know 
what was doing behind him .' 

Mrs. F. He shall have eyes upon all 
sides of his head, if he escape from my ven- 
geance. It shall cost him his election, let it 
cost me what it will, (rings the heUviotentty.) 
Who waits there .' (enter a servant.) Order 
the chariot to be got ready immediately. 
(Exit servant.) I will go to Mr. Jenkinson 
directly. He has already pointed out the 
means ; and I shall find money, without Mr. 
Freeman's knowing any thing of the matter, 
to manage it all well enough. 

Chart. La ! I'm sure I knew well enough 
I did wrong; but I did not think of all this' 
uproar about it. 

Mrs. F. Go to your own room, child: I 
can't abide the sight of you-. (Exeunt Mrs. 

F. on one side of the stage, and Charl. and 

Governess on the other.) 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — a summer apartment in 
Baltimore's house, with a glass 
door opened to a lawn. the scene 
without is seen in the sober light 
of a calm summer evening, with 
the sun already set. 

Enter Baltimore and Mrs. Baltimore form 
an inner room. Baltimore speaking as they 
enter. 

Bait. Let us say no more about it, then. 
I forgive the little deceit of concealment 
which my temper, become too hasty of late, 
may, perhaps, justify. I will confess that the 
irritation excited in my mind by seeing tliat 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



129 



girl so frequently with you is unreasonable, 
is capricious. But you must bear with me a 
little, my Isabella. It is a part of the infirmi- 
ty that oppresses me : it is the fretted edge 

of a deep and rankling Come, come, 

come ! we'll say no more about it. Let us 
forswear this subject. Let us now talk, even 
when we are alone, of light and indifferent 
things. 

Mrs. B. Indeed, I believe it will be safest 
for us, till this passing storm, it will be but a 
summer storm 1 hope, is past over our heads. 
{assu77iing cheerfulness.) And now, to begin 
upon this salutary plan of your's, without loss 
of time, let me boast to you of the beautiful 
collection of plants I have nursed with my 
own hands, in a sly corner of the garden. 
You have never yet been to see them. 
Bait, (eagerly.) Ay, even there too. 
Mrs. B. What do you mean .' 
Bait, {peevishly.) Go to ! you have heard, 
as well as I, of the ridiculous expense he has 
been at in seeds, and rare plants, and flower- 
roots, and nonsense ; and of the learned bot- 
anist he is to pay so liberally for publishing a 
catalogue of them for the use of the scientific 
world — All that abominable ostentation. Ha, 
ha, ha ! He does not know a nettle from a 
crow-foot on his native fields. Ha, ha, ha, 
ha ! — You don't laugh, I think .'' 

Mrs. B. We were to talk, you know, of 
indifferent things. But I have forgot to tell 
you of what really is not indifferent : I had a 
letter from my sister this morning, and, she 
says, your little godson is quite recovered 
from the remains of his illness, (pauses for an 
ansicer.) 

Bolt, (nodding his head hut not attending to 
her.) Umph. 

Mrs. B. (coaxingly .) She says he has be- 
come so chattering, and so playful, it is de- 
lightful to see him ! And he talks of his god- 
father very often ! 

Bait, {nodding again.) Umph. 
Mrs. B. He was always a great favourite 
of yours. 

Bah. (breaking out vehemently.) If any man 
but himself had been guilty of half that ridicu- 
lous vanity, the dullest fool in the county 
would have laughed at him. 

Mrs. B. O dear ! still dwelling upon these 
ideas ! 

(He turns from her, and icalks to the bottom of 
the stage ; she sighs deeply, and follows him 
with her eyes. ^ long pause.) 

Enter Servet. 
Serv. (to Balt.J Excuse me, if I intrude. 
Sir. And you too, my good lady, (bowing 
very low to Mrs. B.) Here is a letter that I 
received a few moments ago, and I thought 
it expedient and proper that you should know 
its contents immediatelv. (skives the letter to 
Bait.) 

Bait. Let me see. (reads.) " An unknown 
well-wisher thinks it right to inform you, that 
your friend" — 

Serv. He ought to have said patron. Sir, 
16 



I'm sure, I have always been^'proud to name 
you as my patron to every body : — the family 
of Baltimore has always been such to me. 

Bait. Well, well, no matter, (reads again.) 
" To ruin your friend, 'Squire Baltimore. 
His adversary" — 

Serv. Meaning Freeman, Sir. 
Bait. I understand ! (reads again.) " His 
adversary being busy in buying up the claims 
of some of his principal creditors. If he 
would walk long at large, let him walk 
cautiously." 

Serv. Meaning that he will lay you up. Sir. 
Bait. I understand it perfectly. 
Mrs. B. O no, no ! Some malicious person 
has written this. 

Bait. Permit me. Madam, to speak to my 
man of business, without interruption. 

Serv. No wonder, Sir. that Mrs. Baltimore 
should think so. He makes such a good show 
with his actions, that he must set about such 
things very cunningly. 

Bait. Yes, Servet, thou hast always had 
some notion of his true character. 

Serv. To think that there should be such 
hypocrisy in the world ! It grieves, it distress- 
es me ! 

Bait. Pooh, man ! never mind how many 
Iiypocrites there are in the world, if he be but 
found amongst tlie number. 

Serv. Ay, Sir: but if he get you once into 
prison — 

Bait. Will he not be detested for it ? 
Serv. But if he should take the borough 
from you — 

Bait. Well ! and if he should take my life 
too, would he not be hanged for it .•' 

Serv. To be sure, there would be some 
satisfaction in that, if you could peep through 
your winding-sheet to see it. 

Bait. He will now appear to the world in 
his true colours : I shall now speak boldly of 
a determined and palpable wrong : it relieve s 
me from a heavy load. Give me thy hand, 
my friend Servet ; thou hast brought me 
admirable news. 

Serv. Bui, Sir, we must take care of our 
selves ; for he is come of such a low, cun- 
ning, mean set of people — 

Bait. Ha ! you know this, do you ? You 
know something of his family ? 

Serv. Yes, I know well enough : and his 
father every body knows was no better than 

a — a — a 

Bait. Than a what .' — Out with it, man ! 
Serv. Than a — than a — 
Bait, (eagerly.) Than a thief.' Is that it .' 
O prove to me, only prove to me, that his 
father was a thief, and I'll give thee all that I 
have in the world. 

Serv. No, not absolutely that — but no bet- 
ter than a paltry weaver. 

Bait, (disappointed.) Pooh ! I knew that 
before. 

Serv. Yes, every body knows it, to be sure. 
But there is no time to be lost : I am so zeal- 
ous about it, that 1 can't rest till I have 



130 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY: 



further information. I'll take horse directly, 
and go in quest of it. 1 know where to in- 
quire, and 1 shall return to you without loss 
of time. 

Bait. Do so, my good friend, and don't be 
afraid of bringing back what you will call bad 
news. I shall not shrink from it. 

(Exit Servet. 
(turning to Mrs. B. loho has been listening to 

their com^rrsation jcith great marks of dis- 
trust and disapprobation.) 
And so. Madam, you are diffident of all this.' 

Mrs. B. It will be impossible at this mo- 
ment to make you view it in the same light 
that I do. 

Bait. Yes, Madam, I knew it would be so 
with you. He has bewitched and thrown a 
veil over the understandings of all men ! I 
have perceived it long. Even from the first 
of his settling in the neighbourhood, my 
friends have begun to look on me not as they 
were wont to do. Even my very tenants and 
dependants salute me less cheerily. He has 
thrown a veil over the understandings of all 
men ! He has estranged from me that sympa- 
thy and tenderness, which should have sup- 
ported my head in the day of adversity. 

Mrs. B. Ah, my dear Baltimore ! It is you 
who have got a veil, a thick and gloomy veil 
cast over your mind. That sympathy and 
tenderness is still the same (jjressing Ibis 
hand.) And, if the day of adversity must 
come, you will be convinced of it. But let 
us for a while give up thinking of these 
things : let us walk out together, and enjoy the 
soothing calmness of this beautiful twilight. 
The evening-star already looks from his 
peaceful sky ; no sound of busy man is to be 
heard; the bat, and the beetle, and the night- 
fly, are abroad, and the pleasing hum of hap- 
py unseen life is in the air. Come forth, my 
husband. The shade of your native trees will 
wave over your head; the turf your infant 
feet first trod will be under your steps. Come 
forth, my friend, and more blessed thoughts 
will visit you. 

Bolt. No, no ; my native trees and my na- 
tive lawns are to me more cheerless than the 
dreary desert. I can enjoy nothing. The curs- 
ed neighbourhood of one obnoxious being 
has changed every thing for me. Would he 
were — {clenching his hands and muttering.) 

j>7rs. B. O ! what are you saying ? 

Bait, {turning aicaij from her.) No matter 
what. 

Enter a little Bov from the lawn by the glass- 
door running wildly, and frightened. 

Boij. He'll be drown'd, if nobody runs to 
save him ! He'll be drown'd ! he'll be drown'd I 

Mrs. B. Has any body fallen into the pond ? 

Boy. Yes, Madam ; into the deepest part 
of it; and, if nobody don't run to pull him 
out, he'll be drowned. 

Bait, {running eagerly towards the glass- 
door.) 
I'll go. Dost thou know who it is, boy ? 



Boy. Yes, to be sure. Sir ; it is 'Squire 
Freeman's own self. (Bait, starts, and stops 
short. Mrs. B. clasping her hands and holding 
them up to heaven, remains in ajtxious sus- 
pense. Bait, after a moment's pause, rushes 
out (juickly ) 

Mrs. B. O God ! what will this come to ! 
(Thro7cs herself back into a chair, and remains 
stupid and motionless. The boy stands star- 
ing at her.) 

Boif. Are you not well. Ma'am .' Shall I 
call any body .'' {She makes no answer ; he still 
stands staring at her.) She don't speak : she 
don't look at nothing : 1 will call somebody. 
{goes to the side-scene, and calls.) Who's there, 
[ beseech you ? O, hear me, hear me ! Who's 
there, I say .'' 

Enter Housemaid and Coachman. 

Housem. What a bawling you make here, 
with your dusty feet, you little nasty jackan- 
apes ! How dare you for to steal into a clean 
house .'' 

Coach. If he be'n't that little devil that put 
the cracker under my horse's tail, I have no 
eyes in my head. He is always prowling 
about : there is never a dog hanged, nor a 
kitten drowned, in the parish, but he must 
be after it. 

Boy. {pointing.) Look there : what is the 
matter with the lady .'' 

Housem. O, mercy on us ! my dear good 
lady! Are yon sick, Ma'am.'' or swooning.'' 
or beside yourself.'' Run, Coachy, stupid oaf! 
and fetch us something. 

Coach. I would run to the farthest nook of 
the earth if I only knew what to bring. Will 
burnt feathers, or a little aqua-vitce do you 
any good .'' 

Mrs. B. {starting up.) Do you hear any 
noise ? Are they coming yet .' I'll go out my- 
self, {endeavours to go out, but cannot.) House- 
maid and Coachman support her.) 

Enter David hastily from the lawn. 

Dav. He is saved, Madam ! 

Mrs. B. O, what say you, David .•■ 

Dav. He has saved 'Squire Freeman. He 
threw hims;elf into the deep water, and plash- 
ed about his arms lustily, till he caught him 
by the hair of his head, and drew him to the 
bank. One minute more had made a dead 
man of him. 

Mrs. B. Who did that ? Who caught him 
by the hair of the head ? 

Dav. My master, Madam ; and a brave 
man he is. 

Mrs. B. {holding up her hands in extacy.) 
Thy master ! ay, and my husband ! and God 
Almii)-hiy's good creature, who has formed 
every" thing good ! O, yes ! he has made 
every beino- with good in it, and will at last 
make it perfectly so, in some way or other, 
known only to his wisdom. Ha ! I hear a 
noise on the lawn. 

Boy. {running out.) I must not lose a sight 
of the drowned man. For he'll be as drop- 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



131 



ping wet as any corpse, I dare say ; for all 
that there is life in him. [Exit. 

Mrs. B. I'll go and meet them. Tm strong 
enough now. 

Dav. Let me support you, Madam. 
Housem. {to Coach, as they go out.) La ! 
will he be all wet, do you think, and stretch- 
ed upon his back .'' 

(Exeunt by the glass door into the lawn, Mrs. 
B. supported by Davrid. Light from a win- 
doio is now thrown across the path without 
doors, and discovers Baltimore and servants 
carrying Freeman into the house by another 
entry. The scene closes.] 

Scene II. — a room in Baltimore's 

HOUSE. 

Enter Simeon and David. 

Dav. Now, my Old Simeon, you'll see 
your master as hearty, after his ducking, as 
if he were an otter, and could live either in 
the water or out of it; though we had some 
trouble to bring him to his senses at first. 

Sim. Ay, do let me go to him quickly. It 
had been a sorrowful day to this grey head, if 
my master had — 

Dav. Yes, and if my master had not, as a 
body may say, put his life in his hand to save 
him. 

Sim. Very true, David, I say nothing 
against all that ; I honour your master for it ; 
thof I must say he has but an ungracious look 
with him. There is not another gentleman 
in the neighbourhood, thof I say it myself, 
that does not stop and say, " How do you do, 
Old Simeon.'' " when he passes me. 

Dav. I don't know ; I'm sure he used not 
to be ungracious. All the old folks of the 
parish used to thrust themselves in his way, 
as if it had been good for the ague, or an 
aching in the bones, to say," God bless your 
honour." 

Sim. That must have been before we came 
amongst you, then. Ha! here comes his 
Honour. 

Enter Freeman, dressed in a night-gown, with 
Truebridge and Charles Baltimore. Mrs. 
Baltimore, at the same time, enters by an- 
other door. 

Sim. (going eagerly to his master, and kiss- 
ing/us hand, which Freeman holds out to him.) 
God bless and preserve your worthy Honour ! 
Free. I thank you, Simeon : a good God has 
preserved me. You have not been much 
alarmed, I hope ? 

Sim. No, Sir ; I heard of your safety before 
I heard of your danger; but some how or 
other it came across my heart, for all that ; and 
I could not but think — I could not — (jiauses 
and draics the back of his hand across his eyes.) 
But the blessings of the ajjed and helpless 
have borne you up : the water could have no 
commission to hurt you. 

True. Well said, good Simeon! the bless- 
ings of the aged, and the helpless are of a 



very buoyant quality. A cork jacket is noth- 
ing to them. 

Free. Do my wife and daughter know of 
it.? 

Sim. No, please ypur Honour ; my mistress 
is not returned from her visit yet, and my 
poor young lady is closed up in her room with 
Madumselle, taking on her book-larning,as I 
suppose. 

Free. I'll go home then, before they know 
any thing of it. (to Mrs. B.) My dear Mad- 
am, I return you my warmest acknowledg- 
ments. You flattered me, that I should have 
an opportunity, before I leave the house, of 
thanking, once more, the brave man who has 
saved my life. 

Mrs. B. He will come to you immediately. 

Char, (to Mrs. B.) Faith I I went to him 
myself, as you desired me, and he won't 
come. 

Mrs. B. (froicning significantly to Char.) 
I have just come from him, and he will be 
here immediately. 

Char. You went too, did you ? I could'nt — 

(Mrs. B. frowns again, and Char, is silent.) 

True, (to Free.) You had better sit down 
till he come. 

Char. Yes, do sit in this chair in the recess; 
for you don't like the light in your eyes, I 
perceive, (leading Free, kindly to the chair.) 

Free. I thank you. You are very good to 
me, friend Charles. I think you would have 
lent a helping hand yourself, if you had been 
in the waj', to have saved a poor neighbour 
from drowning. 

Char. I should have been a Pagan else. 
(Free, sits doicn, and they all gather roundhim.) 
Now, my good Sir, it is pleasanter to sit in a 
dry seat like this, with so many friendly faces 
round you, than to squash among the cold 
mud and duck- weed with roaches and eels for 
your comrades. 

Free. Indeed, friend Charles, I sha'n't con- 
tradict you. 
Enter Baltimore, going directly across the 

stage towards the opposite door, by which 

Free, and the others had entered, without 

perceiving them in the recess. 

Free. He thinks I am still in the bed-room. 
(goes behind Bait, and lays his hand kindly 
upon his shoulder.) 

Bait. Nay, my dear Isabella ! let me go by 
myself! I would rather encounter him alone, 
than when you are all staring upon me. 

Free, (still holding him.) Ha, ha, ha ! my 
brave deliverer ! I have caught you. 
Bait, (turning hastily about, and shaking him- 
self loose from his hold.) Ha ! is it you ? 

Free, (stepping back disappointed.) It is me, 
Sir; and I flattered myself that the overflow- 
ings of a grateful heart would not be offen- 
sive. 

Bait. They are not off'ensive, Sir; you 
mistake me. You are too — There is no oc- 
casion for all these thanks : 1 do not deserve 
them. 

iS'm. (vehemently.) Ab but you do, Sir ! 



132! 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



and all the country round will thank you too. 
There is not a soul of them all, thof he might 
not care a brass penny for you before, who 
will not fill a bumper to your health now, for 
saving to them his noble and liberal Honour. 
O, Sir ! the blessings of every body will be 
upon your head now. 

Bait, (turning away frowningly from Sim.) 
So, so ! 

Mrs. B. Old Simeon says very true : every 
body will bless you. 

Bait, (turning away from her.) This is 
pleasant indeed ! 

Cliur. I'll be hanged if every old woman in 
the parish don't foist you into her next Sun- 
day's prayers, along with the Royal Family. 

Ball, (turning (noay from Char.) Must I be 
beleagur'd by every fool .' (goes hastily to- 
wards the door.) 

M7-S. B. (aside, rynning after him.) You 
will not go away so abruptly .'' 

Bait, (aside to her.) Will there be no end 
to this damned gratitude .'' (about, to Free.) 
Sir, I am very happy — I — I hope you will 
have a good sleep after this accident ; and I 
shall be happy to hear good accounts of you 
to-morrow morning. 

Free. No, Mr. Baltimore, we must not part 
thus. My gratitude for what you have done 
is not to be spent in words only : that is not 
my way. I resign to you, and resign to you 
most cheerfully, all my interest in the borough 
of Westown. 

(Bait, pauses.) 

True. That is nobly said, Mr. Freeman, 
and I expected it from you. 

Char. ( rubbing his hands and grinning 
with delight.) I thought so! — I thought it 
would come to this : he has such a liberal 
way with him in every thing. 

Bait, (half aside to Char.) Wilt thou never 
give over that vile habit of grinning like a 
dog .? (going up with a firm step to Free.) No, 
Sir ; we have entered the lists as fair combat- 
ants together, and neither of us, I hope, (sig- 
nificantly) have taken any unfair advantage 
of the other. Let the most fortunate gain 
the day. I will never receive reward for a 
common office of humanity. That is not my 
way (mimicking Freeman.) 

Free. Let me entreat you I 

Bait. Mention it no more : I am deter- 
mined. 

Free. It would make me infinitely happy. 

B alt. Do me the honour to believe that 1 
speak truth, when I say, I am determined. If 
you give up the borough, I give it up also. 

Free. Then I say no more. I leave with 
you the thanks of a grateful heart. I should 
'nave said, if it had been permitted me, the 
very grateful affection of an honest heart, that 
it will never forget what it owes to you but 
in that place where both affection and animos- 
ity are forgotten. (Exit with emotion, folloio- 
ed by Charles and Simeon.) 

Mrs. B. O Baltimore ! Baltimore ! Will 
you suffer him to go tlius .'' 



Bait, (going two or three steps after him, 
and stopping short.) He is gone now. 

Mrs. B. No, he is not ; you may easily over- 
take him. Do — for the love of gentleness and 
charity ! 

Bait, (going hastily towards the door, and 
stopping short againj) No, hang it ! I can't 
do it now. (Exit hastily by the opposite side.) 

Mrs. B. (shaking her head.) I had great hopes 
from this accident ; but his unhappy aversion 
is, I fear, incurable. 

True. Don't despair yet: I prophecy bet- 
ter things. But do not, my dear Madam, be- 
fore Baltimore at least, appear so anxious 
about it. It serves only to irritate him. 

Mrs. B. Is it possible to be otherwise than 
anxious .'' This unlucky prejudice, gradual- 
ly gaining strength from every little trivial 
circumstance, embitters all the comfort of our 
lives. And Freeman has so many good qual- 
ities — he might have been a valuable friend. 

True. Very true ; he is liberal, good-tem- 
pered, and benevolent : but he is vain, unpol- 
ished, and, with the aid of his ridiculous wife 
to encourage him, most provokinglj' ostenta- 
tious. You ought to make some allowance 
for a proud country gentleman, who now sees 
all the former dependants of his family rang- 
ing themselves under the patronage of a new, 
and, what he will falsely call, a mean man. 

Mrs. B. 0,\ would make every allowance ! 
but I would not encourage him in his preju- 
dice 

True. The way to reclaim him, however, 
is not to run directly counter to it. I have 
never found him so ready to acknowledge 
Freeman's good qualities as when I have ap- 
peared, and have really been half provoked 
myself with his vanity and magnificence. 
When we would help a friend out of the mire, 
we must often go a little way into it ourselves. 

Mrs. B. I believe you are right. Ah ! True- 
bridge ! if you had been more amongst us late- 
ly, we should not now, perhaps, liave been so 
unhappy. He would have listened more to 
you than any other friend. 

True. Have good comfort : I don't despair. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — night, an open space 

BEFORE THE BLUE POSTS: THE SCENE 
DARK, EXCEPT WHERE THE LIGHT 
GLEAMS FROM THE OPEN DOOR OF THE 
HOUSE. A NOISE OF DRINKING AND 
MERRIMENT HEARD VFITHIN. 

Enter some of Baltimore's Voters, &c. from 
the house, carrying a table, a bowl of punch 
and glasses, which they set down in the porch, 
and place themselves round on the benches at 
tlie door. 

Sailor. Now, messmates, let us set down 
our bowl here. We have been long enough 
stow'd in that there close smoky hold, while 
the fresh air has been playing on the decks. 
Let us sit down and be merry ! 1 am return'd 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



133 



home in a good jolly time, old neighbours ; let 
us enjoy it. 

First Vote. Ay, I remember at our last elec- 
tion, when 'Squire Burton was chosen, we 
drank a hearty bowl in this very porch, and 
neighbour Bullock, the tanner, sat as it were 
in that very corner. Rest his soul ! he loved 
his country, and his king, and his cause, and 
his candidate, as w«ll as any heart in Old 
England. 

Second Vote. Ay, and he was always ready 
to knock any body down that was not as, 
hearty as himself. That was what I liked in 
him. That was the true spiri|,. That was the 
true roast beef of Old England. 

First Vote. And he had such a good knack 
at a toast. Come, stand up, Mr. Alderman. 
We have drunk already to the ancient family 
of the Baltimores, give us some other good 
public toast. You have a good knack at the 
business too. I would give you one myself, 
but then I doesn't know how to do it for want 
of education. 

Md. {standing vp conceitedly.) May all the 
king, and the queen, and the royal family, and 
aJl the rest of the nobility and members of 
parliament, serving over them and under us 
be good ; and may all us, serving under them 
again be — be — be happy and be good too, and 
he — and be — 

Second Vote. Just as we should be. 

First Vote. Ay, just so. Very well and 
very nicely said, Mr. Alderman ! 

Second Vote. But does nobody drink to the 
navy of old England.-' 

Md. Yes,.man : stop a little, and I'll have 
a touch at that too. 

First Vote. Ay, do so. I stand up for the 
British navy ; that I do. The sea is our only 
true friend, either by land or by water. Come, 
give us a sailor's song. Will Weatherall. I 
have lived upon dry land all my days, and 
never saw better than a little punt-boat shov'd 
across the ferry for a sixpence ; but some how 
or other I have a kindness for every thing 
that pertains to the great salt sea, with all the 
ships, and the waves roaring, and all that; 
and whenever I sees a good heart of oak seat- 
ed at an alehouse door, with his glass in his 
hand, my heart always turns to him, an there 
should be a hundred men besides. Give us a 
song, man. 

Sailor. That I will. Hang me if thou 
does'n't deserve to feed upon biscuit. 

SONG. 

Merry mantling social bowl, 

Many a cheerful kindly soul 

Fills his glass from thee : 

Healths' go round, care isdrown'd, 

Every heart with lighter bound 

Gen'rous feels and free. 

Cann and beaker by thy side, 
May'st thou oft' in flowing pride 
Thus surrounded be : 



And shame befal the narrow mind, 
J That to a messmate proves unkind , 
I. W ho once has fill'd his glass from thee ! 

Whate'er our state, where'er we meet, 
We still with kindly welcome greet 

The mate of former jollity : 
Far distant, in a foreign land, 
We'll give to all a brother's hand 

That e'er have fill'd their glass from thee. 

Enter Margeky, in a great fury. 

Mar. Dash down your bowl , and break all 
your glasses in shivers ! Are you sitting sing- 
ing here, and 'Squire Baltimore hurried away 
to prison by his vile rascality creditors.'' 
Shame upon your red chops ! Who pays for 
the liquor you are drinking .■' 

Ml. You're wrong in the head, Margery. 

Mar. Ye're wrong in the heart, and that's 
a worse thing, ungrateful punch swillers ! 
You would be all up on end in a moment else ; 
for I saw them lay their detestable paws upon 
him with mine own eyes. Rise up every skin 
of you, or 111 break the bowl about your ears ! 
ril make the liquor mount to your noddles, I 
warrant you ! 

Ml. (starting vp.) Which way did they go .' 

Mar. Come, follow me, and I'll shew you. 
Let them but come within reach of my 
clcnch'd fist, and I'll teach them to lay hands 
upon his honour ! An esquue and a gentle- 
man born. [Exeunt, avcry body following her 

with great noise and hubbub.) 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — a vaulted passage in a 

PRISON. 

Enter Keeper, with several Turnkeys bear- 
ing pots of porter, &c. for the prisoners. 

Keep, (calling to somebody icithout.) Take 
anotlier pot of porter to tlie dog-stealer in the 
north ward, and a Welsh rabbit to his com- 
rade, (to another who enters with a covcied 
dish.) Where have you been all this time .' 

\st Turn. Waiting on the rich deb;ir in 
the best chamber ; he has fallen out with Ids 
stew'd carp, because the sauce of it be'nt 
cook'd to his liking. 

Keep. I'm sorry for that : we must spare 
no pains upon him. 

Enter 2d Turnkeys. 

2d Turn, {holding out a small pig.) Come, 
come, this won't do. Transportation-Betty 
says, nothing but true neat Hollands for her ; 
and this here gin you have sent her be'nt fit 
for a gentlewoman to drink. 

Keep. Yes, yes ; travell'd ladies are woundy 
nice. However, we must not quarrel with her 
neither : take it to the poor author in the 
debtor's ward ; it will be good enough for 
him. 



134 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



Knier Tkuebridge. 

True. What part of tlie prison is Mr. Balti- 
more in ? 

Keep. I'll shew yon, Sir ; follow me. 

True. I thought to have found him in your 
own house. In the common prison .' 

Keep. It is his own fault, Sir ; he would go 
no wiiere else ; and tlie more miserable every 
thing is about him, tlie better he likes it. His 
good lady could scarcely prevail upon him to 
let us set a couple of chairs in his room. 

True. Has she been long here .'' 

Keep. Better than an hour, I should think. 

Triic. Docs he seem much affected .^ 

Keep. Anan, Sir ^ 

True. I mean, much cast down. 

Keep. O, Lud ; no, Sir! I dare say not ; you 
know people are used to such things every 
day. 

True. Very true, Mr. Keeper, I forgot that — 
Show me the way. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a prison. Baltimore is 

DISCOVERED SITTING IN A THOUGHT- 
FUL POSTURE, WITH MRS. BALTIMORE 
RESTING HER ARM ON THE BACK OF 
HIS CHAIR, AND OBSERVING HIM AT- 
TENTIVELY. 

Bait, {after starting vp icith alacrity, and 
waUdng several times up and doitm.) And 
they are calling out, as they go thro' the 
streets, that I am a true Biiltimore,and the son 
of their old benefactor ? 

Mrs. B. They are, indeed. The same party 
that assembled to attempt your rescue, are 
still parading about tumultuously, and their 
numliers arc continually increasing. 

Bah. Tliat's right ! "Tlie enemy, I hope, has 
heard the sound of it round his doors : they 
have bid him a good morrow cheerily. 

Mrs. B. I don't believe they suspect him 
yet, for it is too bad to imagine. 

Bait, (craltinghj .) But they will all know 
it soon. All the world will know it. Man, 
woman, and child will know it; tand even 
clotlied in the very coats his ostentatious 
bounty has bestow'd upon them, the grey- 
headed labourers will curse him. Ha, ha, ha, 
iia! How many chaldrons of coals, and hogs- 
heads of ale, and well fatten'd oxen will, in 
one untoward moment, be forgotten by those 
ungrateful hinds ! Ha, ha, ha ! The very 
children will call to him as he passes by. 
Methinks I tread lightly on the floor of this 
dungeon, with the step of an injured man 
who rises'from the grasp of oppression. Raise 
thy drooping head, my Isabella : I am a 
thousand times more happy than I have been: 
all mankind will sympathize with me now. 

Mrs. n. Every honest breast, indeed, must 
detest baseness and hypocrisy. 

Bnlt. Ay, thou speak 'st with some energy 
now. Come to my heart ! there will be 
sympatiiy between us. Now, thou art the 
wife of Baltimore ! But oh ! my Isabella ! a 
poor man's wife has many duties to fulfil. 



Mrs. B. None that I will not most cheer- 
fully fulfil. 

Bait. Ah ! thou art a fair flower planted on 
an ungracious soil, and I have nursed thee 
rudely. 

Mrs. B. O, no ! you were most kind and 
gentle once. 

Bait. And I will be so again, Isabella : for 
this viper gnaw'd at my heart, and I could be 
gentle to nothing; not even to thee. But my 
heart feels lighter now : I will be rough to thee 
40 more. 

Enter Truebridge. 

Ha ! my friend ! good morning to you ! 
Nay, nay : {taking his hand frankly.) don't be 
afraid to look at me : I wear no desponding 
face upon it. ( pointing to the hare walls of his 
prison.) You see what a happy thing it is to 
have a liberal, generous, magnificent rival to 
contend with. Have you seen any of my 
good noisy friends in your way .-" 

True. Yes, crowds of them ; and I really 
believe this arrest will gain you your election. 
There is sometliing in man that always in- 
clines him to the side of the oppressed. 

Bait. Ay, by God ! and the savage feels it 
more strongly than the philosopher. 

True. He was always a ridiculous ostenta- 
tious fellow ; but if Freeman has thought to 
ruin your cause by the unworthy means you 
hint at, he is tlie greatest fool as well as the 
greatest knave in the community. 

Bait, {ironically.) Don't be too severe 
upon him ! he has been bred to turn his money 
to good account, you know : a purchased debt 
is his property as well as a bale of broadcloth ; 
and he has a great many charitable deeds and 
bountiful donations to pvit into the balance 
ao-ainst one little underhand act of unmanly 
baseness. 

True. Hang all his bountiful donations ! If 
he has done this, I will curse him by the 
hour-glass with any good fellow that will 
keep me compan}'. 

Bait. Nay, nay, nay ! you are warm, True- 
bridge. You are of an irritable disposition. 
You have no charitable allowances to make 
for the failings of good people. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Enter Turnkey. 

Turn. Mr. Freeman begs to be admitted to 
see Mr. Baltimore. 

Bait, {stretching out his arm vehemently.) 
Does he, by my conscience ! {to True.) What 
think you of this .? 

True. If tilings are as we suspect, it does, 
indeed, exceed all ordinary calculations of 
effrontery. 

Bait, {to Turn.) Let him be admitted. 
(Exit Turn.) Now Ave shall see the smooth- 
ness of his snake's skin; but the switch, not 
the sword, shall scotch it. {walks hastly up 
and down.) 

Enter Frkeman. 

Bait, {stopping short upon his entrance, and 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY, 



135 



assuming an ironical respect.) Good morning, 
worthy Sir. You are tlie only man in Eng- 
land, I may say in Europe, nay, I will say in 
the whole habitable globe, for you love mag- 
nificence, Mr. Freeman, whose dauntless con- 
fidence could have been wound up to the 
steady intrepidity of such a visit. 

Free, {simply.) O, no, my friend ; don't 
praise me more than I deserve. In courage 
to run to the assistance of a friend, you your- 
self have set me the example ; and my charac- 
ter, I hope, will never be found deficient in 
any thing that becomes a good neighbour, 
and an honest man. 

Bait, {smiling sarcastically.) Certainly, sir ; 
be at all pains to preserve, in the public opin- 
ion, your invaluable character. I would 
really advise you to have a certificate of all 
your eminent virtues drawn up, and sign'd 
by every housekeeper in the parish. Your 
wonderful liberalities in worsted hose and 
linsey-woolsey petticoats ; your princely sub- 
scriptions for bridges and market-places ; and 
your noble donations to lying-in hospitals, 
have raised your reputation over the whole i 
country : and if the baseness of treacherously 
entrapping a fair and open rival, whom you 
profess'd to respect, can throw any shade 
upon your sublime virtues, you have only to 
build a tower to the parish church, or a new 
alms-house, and that will set every thing to 
rights again, {aside to True.) Look how he 
draws in his detestable mouth, and stares 
upon me like a cat ! 

Free. I now perceive. Sir, the point of 
your discourse, and I forgive every thing that 
it insinuates. I might say many things, but 
there is just one simple answer I will return 
to it. All my fortune is at this moment at 
your disposal . You shall now be a free un- 
encumber'd man, owing no man any thing. 
For how can you be said to be indebted to 
one who owes even his own life to you. To 
tell you this, was my errand here. 

Bait, {shrinking back and then recovering 
himself with proud disdain.) And I, noble 
Sir, have one simple answer to return to you : 
I will rather remain in this prison till the 
hand of death unbolt my door, than owe my 
enlargement to you. Your treachery and 
your ostentatious generosity are equally con- 
temptible. 

Free. On the word of an honest man, I 
have had no knowledge of this shameful 
arrest. 

Bait. And on the word of a gentleman, I 
believe you not. 

Free. Will you put this affront upon me .' 

Bait, {smiling maliciously.) Only if you 
are obliging enough to bear it. Do entirely 
as you please, {aside to True, turning axcay 
contemptuously jrom Free.) See how like a 
sneaking timid reptile he looks, {walks up 
and dozen proudly.) 

Mrs. B. much alarmed {to Free.) O leave 
him ! leave him ! You must not speak to him 
now : he knows not what he says. 



True, {aside to Free.^ Go away for the 
present, Mr. Freeman, and I will call upon 
you by and bye. If you are an honest man, 
you are a noble one. 

Free, {impressively.) In simple truth,[then, 
I am an honest man ; and shall be glad to 
have some discourse with you, whenever you 
are at leisure. [Exit. 

Bait, {stopping short in his walk and look- 
ing round.) Is he gone .'' {to True.) what did 
you tliink of that .'' Was it not admirable ? 
{endeavouring to laugh, but cannot.) The devil 
himself will now appear a novice in hypocrisy. 

True. Faith ! Et^ltimore, I cannot tiiink 
him guilty : he wears not tlie face of a guilty 
man. 
(Baltimore's countenance falls : he turns aicay 

abruptly from Truebridge, and walks up 

and down in disorder.) 

Mrs. B. {perceiving Freeman's hat on the 
ground, ichich he had dropt in his confusion.) 
Mr. Freeman has left his hat behind him. 
{Jls she stoops to lift it, Bait, runs furiously up 
to her and prevents her.) 

Bait. Touch not the damned thing, or I 
will loath thee ! Who waits without.'' hollo! 
Turnkey ! 

Enter Turnkey ; and he, giving the hat a kick 
with his foot, tosses it across the stage. 

Take away that abomination, do ! 

[Exit hastily into an inner apartment. 
True. Don't lose hopes of fair weather, my 
dear Madam, tho' we are now in the midst 
of the storm. Follow and soothe him, if it 
be possible, and I'll go in the mean time to 
Freeman. [Exeunt, severally. 

Scene III. — an open scattered street 

IN A COUNTRY TOWN. 

Enter Jenkinson and Servet by opposite sides; 
and are going to pass without observing one 
another. 

Serv. {calling to Jenk.) Not so fast, Mr. 
Jenkinson ; I was just going to your house. 

Jenk. And I was just going to do myself 
the pleasure to call at your's. 

Serv. And you was glad to go quickly 
along, I believe. It would neither be pleas- 
ant nor safe for you, perhaps, to meet the 
new member in his chair, with all his friends 
round him. "Baltimore for ever!" would 
not sound so very pleasantly in your ears. 
Ay, Mr. Jenkinson ! You have made a fine 
hand of this business for a man of your pre- 
tensions in the profession. 

Jenk. I believe, Mr. Servet, I may be per- 
mitted to assume to myself, without the im- 
putation of vanity, as much professional dex- 
terity in this affair as the most able of my 
contemporaries could have brought into the 
service. Every thing has been done that the 
very nicest mancBUvres of the law would ad- 
mit of Who could have thought of a rich 
friend, from nobody knows where, paying 
Baltimore's debts for him .' Who could have 



136 



THE ELECTION ; A COMEDY. 



thoiio-ht of those fools taking him up so warm- 
ly upon his imprisonment, in manifest con- 
tradiction to the old proverb, that " rats and 
vermin leave a falling house ? " Who could 
have thought so many of Mr. Freeman's 
friends would have stay'd from the poll, too, 
after solemnly promising their votes ? I am 
sure you are too polite not to do me tlie jus- 
tice to confess that these things were not to 
be counted upon. A pinch ol your snufF, if 
you please : you keep the best rappee of any 
gentleman in the county. 

Serv. But what can you say for yourself in 
the present business, Mr. Jenkinson .' I'm 
sure, my client, Mr. Baltimore, has given 
you advantages enough, if you had known 
how to use them. Since his quarrel with Mr. 
Freeman in the prison, have not you and 1 
gone between them with at least half-a-dozen 
of messages, unknown to their friends .-' and 
nothing but a paltry meeting with pistols to 
come of it after all ! It is a disgrace to the 
profession. 

Jenk. What could I have done, Mr. Ser- 
vet.' 

Serv. What could you have done ! Has not 
my client by my mouth, told your client in 
pretty plain terras, in return to all his amica- 
ble advances, that he is a liar, and a hypocrite, 
and a knave, and a coward; and with but very 
little difficulty on your part a kick or a cudg- 
el might have been added : and do you ask 
me what was to be done with all this .'' A 
meeting with pistols, indeed ! It is a disgrace 
to the profession. I once procured for a smug- 
faced client of mine a good douse o'the chops, 
which put a couple of hundred pounds into 
his pocket ; enabled him thereby to run off 
with a rich heiress, and make his fortune, as 
you may well say, by a stroke. As for my- 
self, I put, of course, double the sum into my 
own. 

Jcnk. Do me the favour to believe, my 
worthy Sir, that I have always looked up to 
your superiour abilities with the profoundest 
respect. But have a little patience : and do 
me the honour to suppose I am not alto- 
gether a novice. We may have a duel first 
and a law-suit afterwards. I suppose we shall 
have the pleasure of meeting at the place 
and hour appointed .'' 

Serv. Never doubt that. But I hear the 
crowd coming this way. (some of the crowd 
begin to enter, arid a great noise is heard at a 
distance.) Let us avoid them, and talk fur- 
ther of this matter as we go. [Exeunt Jenk. 
and Serv. 

Enter more of the Crowd. 

First Mob. Well, I can't say but it was a- 
rare speech. 

Second Mob. And very nicely delivered. 

First Mob. Ay, he is a nice man. 

First Woman. And such a sweet-faced gen- 
tleman. He'll stand by his king and coun- 
try, I warrant ye. 

First Mob. (to third Mob.) But you lost it 



all, neighbour Brown, you was so long of 
comincr. •' Gentlemen ! " said he, and he 
bowed his head so, " the honour you have 
this day preferred rac to " — 

Second Mob. No, no, man ; " that you have 
conferred upon me." 

First Mob. Well, well, where's the differ-: 
ence? " I sliall ever consider upon." 

Second Mob. Reflect upon. 

First Mob. Did not I say " reflect upon.^ 
With — with great joy;" no "great" — I don't 
know very well ; but he meant, as one should 
say, as how he would think upon us with 
good-will. And then, quoth he — but first of 
all you know, he said, stretching out his 
hand so, that " the confidence imputed to 
him." 

Second Mob. Tut, man.' reposed upon him. 

First Mob. Did not I say so as plain as a 
man could speak.^ — Was a trust that, with the 
greatest scrupulousness of regard — That is to 
say, you know, that he won't sell his vote for 
a pension : nor give away our poor little earn- 
ings to feed a parcel of lazy placemen and 
courtiers, Lord help us ! And that he won't 
do. 

Third Mob. No, no! I'll answer for him. 
Why, I have heel-pieced his shoes for him 
when he was no bigger than a quart-pot. 

First Mob. But wiiat pleased me most of 
all was, when he waved his hands in this 
fashion, and said, " Gentlemen, it has always 
been the pride and boasting 

Second Mob. Pride and boast. 

First Mob. No, indeed; I say pride and 
boasting, Thomas Truepenny ; have not I a 
pair of ears in my head as well as you ? 

Second Mob. Well, well, boasting be it 
then ! 

First Mob. Yes, " boasting of this honour- 
able borough to support its own dignity and 
independency against all corruptful encroach- 
ments." And then he went on to tell us, 
you know, all about tire glory and braveness 
of our- ancestors — O! let him alone for a 
speech! I'll warrant ye, when he stands up 
among the great men in that there house of 
parliament, he'll set his words together in as 
good a fashion as the best of them. 

Second Mob. Yes, to be sure, if he does it 
in the fashion that you have been a-shewing 
us. 

Second JVo7nan. O la ! there he comes, and 
the pretty chair and all the pretty riblx)ns fly- 
ing about ! Do come and let us run after him'. 

(Enter a great crowd, and Baltimore carried 
in a chair ornamented with boughs and rib- 
bons, &c. on the back ground, and crossing 
over the bottom of the stage Exeunt with accla- 
mations : the first crowd joining them.) 

Scene IV. — an open space in a for- 
est SURROUNDED WITH THICKETS 

AND FERN, &C. 

Enter Baltimore and Servet, looking out 
several ways as they enter. 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



137 



Serv. Now I do see them a-coming ! 

Bait. You have discovered them half-a-doz- 
en of times already since we entered the for- 
est : Are they at hand ? 

Scrv. (still looking out thro' some bushes.) 
They an't far off, but I don't know how it is, 
they keep always a-moving, and always a- 
moving, and yet they never come nearer. 

Bait. He stops to take heart, perhaps, (smi- 
ling icith malicious satisfaction.) 

Scrv. Yes, poor man, ha, ha, ha ! his mind 
is disturb'd enough, no doubt. But you. Sir, 
are so composed ! You have the true strong 
nerves of a gentleman. Good blood always 
shows itself upon these occasions, (looking 
out again.) Yonder now, I could tell you, 
even at this distance, by that very manner of 
waving his pocket handkerchief, that he is in 
a devilish quandary. 

Bait. Indeed ! dost thou already discoverin 
him the disturbed gait of a frightened man ? 
This is excellent ! — Let me look ! let me look ! 
(looking thro' the bushes with great satisfaction 
and eagerness.) Where, Servet .' 

Serv. Look just between the birch-tree and 
the little gate. 

Bait, (peevishly.) Pooh, nonsense ! It is a 
colt feeding among the bushes, and lashing 
off the flies with his tail. 

As they are looking, enter Freeman and Jen- 
KiNsoN behind them. 

Free. Good morning, gentlemen : I hope 
we have not kept you waiting. 

Bait. I am here, Sir, at your request, to 
give you the satisfaction you require, and I 
have waited your time without impatience. 

Free. Ah, Mr. Baltimore ! it is a cruel ne- 
cessity that has compell'd me to require such 
a meeting as this from a man to whom I owe 
my life. But life, with contempt and degra- 
dation in the eye of the world annexed to it, 
is no benefit : you have cruelly compell'd me — 

Bait. Make no apology. Sir, for the invita- 
tion you have given me to this place : it is the 
only one in my life that I have received from 
you with pleasure, and obey'd with alacrity. 

Free. You will regret, perhaps, when it is 
too late, that some explanation, on your part, 
did not prevent 

Jetik. Yes, Sir, some little explanation of 
your words. The most honourable gentle- 
man is always free to confess that words are 
not always intended to convey the meaning 
they may obviously seem to express. 

Bait, (contemptuously .) I make no doubt. 
Sir, that you can find a great many different 
meanings to the same words. A lie may be 
easily turn'd into a slight mistake, or a villain 
into a gentleman of deep and ingenious re- 
source, in your polite dictionary : but I am a 
plain, unpolish'd man, Mr. Jenkinson, and I 
have but one sense in which I oiFer what I 
have said by the mouth of my friend here 
(pointing to Serv.j to Mr. Freeman, and to 
the world, unrctracted and unexplain'd. (aside 
to Serv.) Does he not loqk pale ? 
17 



Serv. O, very pale. 

Free. Then, Mr. Baltimore, you compel a 
man of peace to be what he abhors. 

Bait. I am sorry, Sir, this business is so 
disagreeable to you : the sooner we despatch 
it, in that case, the better. Take your ground. 
(aside to Serv.) Does he not look very pale.' 

Serv. (aside.) O, as white as a corpse. 

Free. I believe you are right (to Serv. and 
Jenk.) Mark out the distance, gentlemen : 
you know what is generally done upon these 
occasions. I am altogether ignorant. You 
seem to be ready, Mr. Baltimore, and so am I. 

Serv. (aside to Bait.) He would bully it out 
now, but he is in a great quandary for all that. 

Bait, (aside toBeiv. angrily.) No, hang him, 
he is as firm as a rock ! (aloud to Free.) I am 
perfectly ready also. Sir. Now take your 
fire. 

Free. No ; I cannot call you out, and take 
the first fire myself: this does not appear to 
me reasonable. 

Bait. You are the insulted man. 

Free. Yes, but I am the challenger, and 
must insist on first receiving your's. 
(They take their ground, and Ball, is about to 
fire, when Truebridge and Charles Baltimore, 

break in upon them through the bushes.) 

True, (seizing Baltimore's arm.) Hold your 
rash hand, madman, and make not yourself 
accursed ! 

Bait. What do you mean, Truebridge .' 

True, (pointing to Yxee.) That there stands 
before you the unknown friend 

Free, (to True, eagerly.) Hold ! hold ! re- 
member your promise : I have bound you to 
it. 

True. But you release me from that prom- 
ise by eff'ecting this meeting unknown tome, 
when I had every claim upon your confidence. 
I will not hold my tongue. 

Bait. For God's sake, then, tell the worst 
thou hast got to say, for I am distracted ! 

True. There stands before you, then, that un- 
known friend ; the great uncle of your wife, 
as 1 suffered you to suspect, who has paid all 
your debts, open'd your prison doors, and 
even kept back his own friends from the poll 
to make you the member of Westown. (Bait. 
staggers back some paces, and the pistol falls 
from his hand.) 

Char, (capering with joy.) O, brave and no- 
ble ! this makes a man's heart jump to his 
mouth ! Come here, Mr. Spitfire, (taking up 
the pistol.) we shall have no more occasion 
for you. 

Bait, (giving Charles an angry push as he 
stoops down close by him to lift the pistol.) 
Get away, damn'd fool ! Does this make you 
happy ? 

True. Fie, Baltimore ! It is not manly in 
thee to be thus overcome. 

Bait. If thou had'st lodged a bullet in my 
brain, I had thank'd thee for it. 

True. And is there nothing, then, within 
your breast that is generously called forth to 
meet the noble gratitude of a liberal mind.' 



138 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



A mind wliich has strove to acquit itself of 
the obhgation tiiat it owes to you, and to make 
you ample reparation for an injury which you 
have suffered on his account, tho' entiiely 
unknown to him. There is nothing in your 
breast that comes forth to meet such sentiments 
as these. Injuries and oppression are pleasing 
to your mind ; generosity and gratitude op- 
press it. Are these the feelings of a brave 
man.' Come, come ! {taking his arm gently.) 

Bait. Hold away I I am fool'd, and de- 
press 'd, and degraded ! {turns away from him 
abruptly.) 

True. Well, then, battle out with your own 

froud spirit the best way you can. Freeman, 
must agree to it, is a magnificent, boasting, 
ostentatious fellow ; and devil take me if I 
could bear to have any reciprocity in good 
offices with him myself I 

Bait. By the Lord ! Truebridge, I'll run you 
thro' the body if you say that again. 

TVuc. Ha! come nearer to me then. I shall 
now tell Freeman of an obligation he owes to 
you, Baltimore, and we shall see if he bears it 
more graciously. 

Free. I owe my life to his courage. 

True. Yes, but it is not that. Come nearer 
me, Baltimore, {to Free.) You were anxious, 
1 believe, to erect a monument to the memory 
of your laJier. 

Free. Yes, Sir ; and Mr. Jenkinson has writ- 
ten for me to have it accomplish'd. 

True. And also, at the same time, to have 
a certificate of your baptism? 

Free. Yes, Sir, some family business re- 
quired it ; but I have yet received no answer. 

True. No; the clergyman to whom you 
wrote is my particular friend ; he has made 
the inquiries you desired ; and the result is of 
such a nature he has thought it necessary to 
be the bearer of it himself 

Free. What may it be .-' 

True. He is at my house, and will inform 
you of every thing minutely; but, just at this 
moment, I can't lielp telling you myself, that 
to erect a monument to the memory of your 
father is unnecessary^, as Mr. Baltimore has 
already piously saved you that trouble. 

Free. What do you mean by that .-" I am a 
man of peace, but I will tear the heart out of 
any one who dares to insult my father's 
memory. 

True. He has done it in sober piety. 

Free. What ! erected a monument for my 
father in tlie parish church of Southerndown.'' 

True. No, in the parish church of Westown. 

Free. My father is not buried there. 

TVue. Ay, but lie is, indeed. One church, 
one grave, one coffin contains both your fath- 
er and his. 

Free. O, God ! what is this ? (Bait, starts 
and puts his hands before his eyes.) 

Char. I would give a thousand pounds that 
this were true. 

True. {U) Char.) Thou hast lost thy money, 
then. But prithee be quiet, Charles ! (Jenki- 
son and Servet look ruefully upon one another.) 



Free, (after a pause.) Was not my mother 
the wife of Freeman .' 

True. Yes ; and, I believe, his faithful wife ; 
but she was your mother first. 

Free. She was seduced and betray'd .' 
True. We will not, if you please, enter into 
that part of the story at present. My account 
says, that she married, after bringing you into 
the World, a poor but honest man : that the 
late Mrs. Baltimore discovered her some years 
afterwards, sympathised with her misfortune, 
and from her own pin-money, for the family 
affairs were even then very much involved, 
paid her a yearly sum for the support and 
education of her son, which laid the founda- 
tion of his future wealth and prosperity. 

Bait, {stepping forward with emotion.) Did 
my mother do this .'' 

True. Yes, Baltimore, she 'did; till Mrs. 
Freeman, inform'd of the state of your father's 
affairs, with an industry that defied all pain 
and weariness, toil'd day and night to support 
the aspiring views of her son, independent 
of a bounty which she would no longer re- 
ceive, tho' it was often and warmly press'd 
upon her. 

Free, {loith emotion.) And did my mother 
do that .? 

True. She did, indeed. 

Free. Then God bless her ! I do not blush 
to call myself her son. 

True, {stretching out his hands to Bait, and 
Free.) Now, don't think that I am going to 
whine to you about natural affection, and fra- 
ternal love, and such weaknesses. I know 
that you have lived in the constant practice 
of all manner of opposition and provocation 
towards one another for some time past : you 
have exercised your tempers thereby, and 
have acquired habits that are now, perhaps, 
necessary for you. Far be it from me to break 
in upon habits and gratifications ! Only, as 
you are both the sons of one father, who now 
lies quietly in his grave, and of the good wo- 
men, for I call them both good, who bore no 
enmity to one another, tho" placed in a situa- 
tion very favourable for its growth, do for the 
love of decency take one anotherby the hand, 
and live peaceably and respectably together ! 
(taking each of them by the hand.) 

Bait, {shakijig off True.) Get away. True- 
bridge, and leave us to ourselves. 
(True, retires to the bottom of the stage, and 
makes signs for Jcnk. Serv. and Char, to 
do so too : they all retire.) 
(Bilt. and Free, stand looking at one another 
for some time without speaking. Bait, then 
drawing nearer to Free, clears his voice, 
and puts on the action of one icho is going 
to speak emphatically ; but his energy is sud- 
denly dropt, and he turns away loithout 
speaking. He draws near him a second 
time, clears his voice again, and speaks in 
broken accents.) 

Bait. I have been to you, Mr. Freeman, 
most unreasonable and unjust. I have — I 
have — my behaviour has been stern and un- 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



139 



gracious — But — but my heart — O ! it has of- 
fended beyond — beyond even the forgiveness 
of a — of a 

Free, {eagerly.) Of a what, Mr. Baltimore .-' 

Bait. Of a brother. 

Free. God bless you for that word ! Are you 
the first to pronounce it ? Yes, I will be a 
brother, and a father, and a friend, and 
an every thing to 3'ou, as long as there is 
breath in my body. And tho' we do not em- 
brace as brothers 

Bait, {rushing into his arms.) Ah ! but we 
do ! we do ! most heartily ! But I have .some- 
thing to say. Let me lean against this tree 
for a little, {leans his hack against a tree.) 

Free. What would you say ? 

Bait, {ill a broken voice.) I am — I am 
where I ought not to be. Your generosity 
imposed upon you — the borough of Westown 
is vacant. 

Free. No ; it is filled with the man for 
whom I will henceforth canvass thro' thick 
and thin every shire, town, and village in the 
kingdom, if need be : the borough of Wes- 
town is not vacant. 

Bait, {endeavouring to open his icaistcoat 
and collar.) My buttons are tight over my 
breast : I can't get this thing from my throat. 
(Free, attempts to assist him.) 

True, {running fonrard from the bottom of 
the stage.) Let me assist you, Baltimore. 

Bolt. No, no. hold away : he will do it for 
me. I feel the touch of a brother's hand 
near my breast, and it does me good. 

True, {exulting.) Ha ! is it thus with you .'' 
Then we have triumphed ! conquest and 
victory ! 

Char, {tossing up his hat in the air.) Con- 
quest and triumph and victory ! O it is all 
right now ! 

True. Yes, Charles, thou may'st now be as 
boisterous as thou wilt. 

Jenk. {aside to Serv.) We have made but 
a bad business of it here. 
Ser. {aside to Jenk.) it was all your fault. 

{they quarrel in a corner, whilst Free, and 

True, are occupied with Bait.; and Charles 

runs exultingly abmit, tossing his hat in the 

air.) 
Enter nearly at the same time, by opposite sides, 

Mrs. Baltimore and Mrs. Frekm,\n, with 

Charlotte. 

Mrs. B. (alarmed.) O, you are wounded, 
Baltimore. 

True. No, no ! there are no wounds here : 
we are victorious. 

Mrs. B. Over whom ? 

True. Over a whole legion of devils ! or, at 
least, over one great black one, who was as 
strong and as stubborn as a whole legion. 

Mrs. B. {joyfully.) Ha ! and is he over- 
come at last .•' Let fme rejoice with you, my 
Baltimore I We have found our lost happiness 
again. 

Bait. We have found soinething more, my 
dear Isabella : we have found a brother. 
{presenting Free, to Mrs. B.) 



Mrs. B. Yes, I knew you would find in 
this worthy man a friend and a brother. 

Bait. Nay, nay ! you don't catch my mean- 
ing : he is the son of my father. 

Mrs. F. What does he say .' 

Char. The son of his father ! My ears are 
ringing. 

Mrs. B. {after a pause of surprise.) In sober 
earnest truth ^ {clasping her hands together.) 
O thank heaven for it! {holding out her hand 
to Free.) My friend and my brother. 

Bait, {to Free.) Yes, she has always been 
your friend. 

Free, (kissing ker hand with emotion.) I 
know slie has, and I have not been ungrate- 
ful, (presenting Mrs. Free, to Mrs. B. and 
Bait.) And here is one who has not been so 
much your friend as she will be. Her too 
warm interest in a husband's success misled 
her into an error which she sincerely repents. 

Mrs. F. (affectedly.) Mrs. Baltimore has 
too much sensibility herself not to pardon the 
errors it occasions in others. 

Mrs. B. {taking her hand.) Be assured, my 
dear madam, I can remember nothing with 
resentment that is connected with our present 
happiness. 

Scrv. {asiur t.<y Jenk.) And Mrs. Freeman 
is shaking haad^ wiUi them too I O I tlure 
will be a stagnation to pU activity ! there will 
not be a lawsuit in the parish for a century 
to come ! 

Jmk. (aside.) Well, how could I help it ? 
Walk tills way, for God's sake, or they will 
hear us. 
(Jenk. and Ser. retire to the bottom of the 

stage quarrelling.) 

Mrs. B. {looking round.) But there is some- 
thing wanting for me still : My dear Char- 
lotte— 

Charl . {coming foricard and jumping into 
Mrs. B's arms.) Yes, I was just waiting for 
this. O I I shall love you, and live with 3'ou, 
and hang about you continually I My sister, 
my aunty, my cousin ! how many names 
may I call you ^ 

Mrs. B. As many as you please. But 
there is another name that you must learn to 
say : {leading her up to Bait.) do you think 
you can look gravely in this gentleman's 
face and call him uncle .' Nay, don t be 
frightened at him. {to Bait.) Poor girl, she 
has stood in awe of you intolerably. 

Bait, {embracing her.) She shall stand in 
awe of me no more ; and, if ever I look sternly 
upon her again, I will cheerfully submit to 
whatever correction she may think proper to 
inflict upon me. {smiliiig significantly.) 

Char, {holding out his hand to Charlotte 
And is there no such thing as cousins to be 
made out of all this store of relationship ? 

Charl. O yes ! there is a lazy, idle, good- 
for-nothing thing called a cousin, that we 
must all have some little kindness for, as in 
duty bound, notwithstanding. 

Free.\ Don't mind her, my friend Charles : 
you shall be lazy and idle no longer. I'll find 



140 



THE ELECTION : A COMEDY. 



employment for you : I'll rouse you up and 
make a man of you.. There is not a peer of 
the realm has it in liis power to do more 
for liis relations than I have. And by heaven 
I will do it too. 

True, (laying his hand on Freeman's shoul- 
der.) Gently now, my good Sir I we know 
all that perfectly well. 

Bait, (aside to True.) O, let him boast now, 
he is entitled to it. 

True, (aside to Bait, giving a nod of satis- 
faction.) Ay, all is well, I see. (aloud.) Now, 
my happy friends, if I have been of any use 
amongst you, shew me your gratitude by 
spending the rest of the day at my house, with 
my good friend the Vicar of Blackmorton ; 
who has many things to tell you. 

Mrs. Free, (aside to True.) As 1 am the 
elder brother's wife, the foolish ceremony of | 



my taking precedence of Mrs. Baltimore will 
be settled accordingly ; and I'm sure it will 
distress me extremely. 

True, (aside to her.) Don't distress yourself, 
Madam ; there is a bar to that, which you 
shall have the satisfaction of being acquainted 
with presently. Pray don't let your amiable 
delicacy distress you. (aloud.) Now let us 
leave this happy nook But I am resolved to 
have a little bower erected in this very spot, 
where we will all sometimes retire, whenever 
we find any bad dispositions stirring within us, 
with that book in our hands, which says " If 
thy brother offend thee seven times in a day" — 
No, no, no ! I must not repeat sacred words 
with an unlicensed tongue : but I will bless 
God in silence for restoring a rational creature 
to the kindly feelings of humanity . [Exeunt. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 

PART FIRST. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
MEN. 

O s w A L , king of Mercia . 

Edward, his nephew, and ethling or heir to 
the crown. 

Seagvuth, father to Edward. 

Ethwald. 

Ethelbert, a noble Thane. 

Selred, elder brother to Ethwald. 

MoLLo, father to Ethwald, a _ Thane of s^nall 
consideration. 

Hexulf, a bigoted bishop. 

Alwy, an artful adventurer. 

Woggarwolfe, a rude marauding Thane. 

Ongar, a creature of Alwy's. 

Mystics and Mystic Sisters, supposed to be suc- 
cessors of the Druidical Diviners ; Soldiers, 
Attendants, <^c. 

WOMEN. 

Elbcrga, daughter to king OswaJ. 

Bertha, attached to Ethwald. 

SiGURTHA, mother to Bertha, and niece to 
Mollo, living in his castle icith her daugh- 
ter, as part of his family. 

DwiNA, attendant on Elburga. 

Ladies, Mtendants, andfewMle Druids. 

The Sceneis supposed to bein England, in the 
kingdom of Mercia, ajid the time near the 
end of the Heptarchy. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — the court of a saxon cas- 
tle. 

Ethwald is discovered lying upon the ground as 
if half asleep. The sound of a horn is heard 
without, at which he raises his head a little, 
and lays it down again. The gate of the castle 
opens at the bottom of the stage, and enter Sel- 
red, Ethelbert, and attendants, as if return- 
ing from hunting. Sel. and Eth. walk forward 
to the front, and the others retire by different 
sides of the stage. 

Sel. This morning's sport hath bravely paid 
our toil. 
Have not my dogs done credit to their breed ^ 

Eth. I grant they have. 

Sel. Mark'd you that tawny hound, 
With stretched nostrils snuffing to the ground, 
Who still before, with animating yell, 



Like the brave leader of a warlike band, 
Thro' many a mazy track his comrades led 
In the right tainted path .' 
I would not for the weirgelt of a Thane 
That noble creature barter. 

Eth. I do not mean to tempt thee with the 
sum. 
See'stthou where Ethwald, like a cottage cur 
On dunghill stretch'd,halfsleeping,half awake, 
Doth bask his lazy carcass in the sun .'' 
Ho ! lagger there ! {to Ethw. who just rai- 
ses his head and lays it doiun again. 
Eth. going up close to him. 
When slowly from the plains and nether 

woods 
With all their winding streams and hamlets 

brown, 
Updrawn, the morning vapour lifts its veil, 
And thro' its fleecy folds, with soften'd rays, 
Like a still'd infant smiling in his tears. 
Looks thro' the early sun : — when from afar 
The gleaming lake betrays its wide expanse, 
And, lightly curling on the dewy air, 
The cottage smoke doth wind its path to 

heaven : 
When larks sing shrill, and village cocks do 

crow, 
And lows the heifer loosen'd from her stall : 
When heaven's soft breath plays on the wood- 
man's brow, 
And ev'ry hair bell and wild tangled flower 
Smells sweetly from its cage of checker'd 

dew: 
Ay, and wheu huntsmen wind the merry horn, 
And from its covert starts the fearful prey ; 
Who, warra'd with youth's blood in his swel- 
ling veins, 
Would, like a lifeless clod, outstretch'd lie. 
Shut up from all the fair creation offers ? 
(Eth. yawns and heeds him not.) He heeds 
me not. 
Sel. I will assail him now. {in a louder 
voice.) 
Ho ! foxes heads our huntsman's belt adorn. 
Who have, thro' tangled woods and ferny 

moors. 
With many wiles shaped out their mazy flight ; 
Have swam deep floods, and from the rocky 

brows 
Of frightful precipices boldly leap'd 
Into the gulph below. 

Nay, e'en our lesser game hath nobly done : 
Across his shoulders hang four furred feet, 
That hath full twenty miles before us run 
In little space. O, it was glorious ! 

Ethw. {raising his head carelessly.) 
Well, well, I know that hares will swiftly run 



142 



ETHWALD . A TRAGEDY. 



When dogs pursue llioin. (stritclics himself 
and goes to rest again.) 
Eth. Leave him to rest, he is not to be 

rous'd. 
Sel. Well, be it so. By heaven, my fretted 
soul 
Did something of this easy stupor lack, 
When near the easy limits of our chace 
I pass'd the frowning tovi^er of Rutliergeld ! 
He hangs a helmet o'er his battlements, 
As tho' he were the chief protecting Thane 
Of all the country round. 
I'll teach th' ennobled Coerl, within these 

bounds. 
None may pretend in noble birth to vie 
With Mollo's honour'd line ! 

Eth. {proudly.) Hast thou forgot ? 

Or did"st thou never hear whose blood it is 
That fills thes' swelling veins .'' 

Sd. I cry you mercy, Thane: I little doubt 
Some brave man was the founder of your 
house. 
Eth. Yes; such an one, at mention of 
whose name 
The brave descendants of two hundred 3'^ears 
Have stately rose with more majestic step. 
And proudly smiled. 

Ed. Who was this lordly chieftain .? 

Eth. A Swabian shepherd's son, who, in 
dark times, 
When ruin dire menaced his native land. 
With all his native lordship in his grasp, 
A simple maple spear and osier shield. 
Making of keen and deep sagacity, 
With daring courage and exalted thoughts, 
A plain and native warrant of command. 
Around him gather'd all the valiant youth; 
And, after mau}^ a gallant entcrprize, 
Repell'd the foe, and gave his country peace. 
His grateful country bless'd him for the gift. 
And offer'd to his worth the regal crown. 
Scl. (bmmiig respectfully.) I yield me to thy 
claim. 
(Ethwald, tcho has raised hiviselfup by de- 
grees upon hearing the story, and listened 
eagerly, noni starts up, impatient of the 
pause, and, catches Eth. hy the arm.) 
Ethio. And did they crown him then .' 
Eth. No; with a mind above all selfish 
wrong, 
He gen'rously the splendid gift refused : 
And drawing from his distant low retreat 
The only remnant of the royal race, 
Did fix him firmly on his father's seat ; 
Proving until his very latest breath 
A true and loyal subject. 
Ethwald 's countenance changes, then turning 
from Eth. he .slowly retires to the bottom of 
the stage and Exit. Y.ib.folloiDS him atten- 
tively with his eye as he retires. 
Eth. Mark'd you the changes of the strip- 
ling's eye ? 
You do complain that lie of late has grown 
A musing sluggard". Selrcd, mark me well : 
Brooding in secret, grows within his breast 
That which no kindred owns to sloth or ease. 
And is your father fix'd to keep him pent 



Still here at home .' Doth the old wizard's 

prophecy. 
That the destruction of his noble line 
Should from the valour of his youngest son, 
In royal warfare, spring, still haunt his 

mind .'' 
This close confinement makes the pining 

youth 
More eager to be free. 

Sel. Nay, rather say, the lore he had from 

tliee 
Hath o'er him cast this sullen gloom. Ere 

this. 
Where was the fiercest courser of our stalls 
That did not shortly under him become 
As gentle as the lamb .'' What bow so stiflT 
But he would urge and strain his youthful 

strength. 
Till ev'ry sinew o'er his body rose. 
Like to the sooty forger's swelling arm, 
Until it bent to him ? What flood so deep 
That on its foaming waves he would not 

throw 
His naked breast, and beat each curling 

surge , 
Until he gain'd the far opposing shore ? 
But since he learnt from thee that letter'd art. 
Which only sacred priests were meant to 

know, 
See how it is, I pray ! His father's house 
Has unto him become a cheerless den. 
His pleasant tales .and sprightly playful talk, 
Which still our social meals were wont to 

cheer. 
Now visit us but like a hasty beam 
Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the 

maid, 
My careful father destines for his bride. 
That he may still retain him here at home, 
Fair as she is, receives, when she appears, 
His cold and cheerless smile. 
Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome, 
And the displeasure of our holy saint. 
Might well have taught thee that such sacred 

art 
Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the 

youth. 
Eth, I've spoilt the youth ! Whatthink'st 

thou then of me .'' 
Sel. I'll not beUeve that thou at dead of 

night 
Unto dark spirits say'st unholy rhymes ; 
Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt, 
Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach ; 
Nor that foul fiends about thy castle yell, 
What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with 

storms ; 
Tho' many do such frightful credence hold, 
And sign themselves when thou dost cross 

their way. 

1 do not believe 

Eth. By the bless'd light of heaven ; — 

Sel. I cannot think 

Eth By this well-proved sword ! 

Sel. Patience, good Thane ! I meant to 

speak thy praise. 
Eth. My praise, say'st thou ? 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



143 



Sel. Thy praise. I would have said, 

" That he who in the field so oft hath fought, 
So bravely fought, and still in the honour'd 

cause, 
Should hold unhallow'd league with damned 

sprites, 
1, never will believe." Yet much I grieve 
That thou, with bold intrusive forwardness, 
Hast enter'd into that which holy men 
Hold sacred for themselves ; 
And that thou hast, with little prudence too, 
Entrapp'd my brother with this wicked lore, 
Altho' methinks thou did'st not mean him 

harm. 
Eth. I thank thee, Selred ; listen now to 

me. 
And thou shalt hear a plain and simple tale, 
As true as it is artless. 
These cunning priests full loudly blast my 

fame , 
Because that I with diligence and cost, 
Have got myself instructed how to read 
Our sacred scriptures, wiiich, they would 

maintain, 
No eye profane may dare to violate. 
If I am wrong, they have themselves to blame. 
It was their hard extortions first impell'd me 
To search that precious book, from which they 

draw 
Their right, as they pretend, to lord it thus. 
But what think'st thou, my Selred, read I 

there ? 
Of one sent down from heav'n in sov'reign 

pomp. 
To give into the hands of leagued priests 
All power to hold th' immortal soul of man 
In everlasting thraldom ? O far otherwise ! 

(fa/i 'iig Selred's hand with great earn- 
estness.) 
Of one who healtli restored unto the sick. 
Who made the lame to walk, the blind to see, 
Who fed the hungry, and who rais'd the 

dead. 
Yet had no place v^'herein to la}- his head. 
Of one from ev'ry spot of tainting sin 
Holy and pure ; and yet so lenient, 
That he with soft and unupbraiding love 
Did woo the wand'ring sinner from his ways. 
As doth the elder brother of a house 
The erring stripling guide. Of one, my 

friend. 
Wiser by far than all the sons of men, 
Yet teaching ignorance in simple speech. 
As thou would'st take an infant on thy lap 
And lesson him with his own artless tale. 
Of one so might}'' 

That he did say unto the raging sea 
" Be thou at peace," and it obey'd his voice ; 
Yet bov/'d himself unto the painful death 
That we might live. — They say that I am 

proud — 

! had they like their gentle master beeni! 

1 would, with suppliant knee bent to the 

ground, 
Have kiss'd their very feet. 
But, had they been like him,[they would have 

pardon 'd me 



Ere yet my bending knee hath touch'd the 

earth. 
Sel. Forbear, nor tempt me with thy moving 

words ! 
I'm a plain soldier, and unfit to judge 
Of mysteries which but concern the learn'd. 
Etk. I know thou art, nor do I mean to 

tempt thee. 
But in thy younger brother I had mark'd 
A searching mind of freer exercise, 
Untrammell'd with the thoughts of other men ; 
And like to one, who, in a gloomy night, 
Watching alone amidst a sleeping host. 
Sees suddenly along the darken'd sky 
Some beauteous meteor play, and with his 

hand «• 

Wakens a kindred sleeper by his side 
To see the glorious sight, e'en so did I. 
With pains and cost 1 divers books procured. 
Telling of wars, and arms, and famous men ; 
Thinking it would his young attention rouse ; 
Would combat best a learner's difficulty. 
And pave the way at length for better things. 
But here his seized soul has wrapp'd itself. 
And from the means is heedless of the end. 
If wrong I've done, I do repent me of it. 
And now, good Selred, as thou'st seen me 

fight 
Like a brave chief, and still in th' honour'd 

cause, 
By tliat good token kindly think of me, 
As of a man, who long has suffet'd wrong, 
Rather than one deserving so to sufier. 
Sel. I do, brave Ethelbert. 
Eth. I thank thee, friend. 

And now we'll go'and wash us from this dust : 
We are not fit at goodly boards to sit. 
Is not your feast hour near ? 

Sel. I tliink it is. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a small apartment in 

MOLLO'S castle. 

Enter Ethwald very thoughtful, who leans 
against a pillar for some time without speaking. 

Ethic, {coming foncard.) Is it delusion 

this ? 
Or wears the mind of man within itself 
A conscious feeling of its destination .' 
What say these suddenly imposed thoughts, 
Which mark such deepen'd traces on the 

brain 
Of vivid real persuasion, as do make 
My nerved foot tread firmer on the earth, 
And my dilating form tower on its way ? 
That I am born, within these narrow walls, 
The younger brother of a petty chief. 
To live my term in dark obscurity. 
Until some foul disease or bloody gash. 
In low marauding strife, shall lay me low ? 
My spirit sickens at tlie hateful thought I 
It hangs upon it with such thick oppression, 
As doth the heavy, dense, sulphureous air 
Upon the breath it stifles. (puUing np the 

sleeve of his garmerd, and baring his 

right arm from the shouhler.) 
A firmer strung, a stronger arm than this 



144 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Own'd ever valiant chief of ancient story ? 
And lacks my soul within, what should impel 

it? 
Ah ! but occasion, like th' unveiling moon 
Which calls the advent'rer forth, did shine on 

them ! 
1 sit i'the shade ! no star-beam falls on me!'. 
(Bursts into tears, and throws himself back 
against the pillar. Ji pause : he then starts 
forward full of animation, and tosses his 
arms high as he speaks.) 
No ; storms are hush'd within their silent 

cave, 
And unflesh'd lions slumber in the den. 
But there doth come a time ! 

Enter Bertha, stealing softly upon him before 
he is aware. 

What, Bertha, is it thou who steal'st upon 
me .'' 
Ber. I heard thee loud : 
Conversest thou with spirits in the air .' 
Ethw. With those whose answ'ring voice 

thou can'st not hear. 
Ber. Thou hast of late the friend of such 
become, 
And only they. Thou art indeed so strange 
Thy very dogs have ceased to follow thee. 
For thou no more their fawning court re- 

ceiv'st, 
Nor callest to them with a master's voice. 
What art thou grown, since thou hast lov'd 

to pore 
Upon those magic books .'' 

Ethw. No matter what ! a hermit an' thou 

wilt. 
Ber. Nay, rather, by thy high assumed gait 
And lofty mien, which I have mark'd of late, 
Oft times thou art, within thy mind's own 

world. 
Some king or mighty chief. 
If so it be, tell me thine honour's pitch. 
And I will tuck my regal mantle on. 
And mate thy dignity, (assuming much state.) 
Ethic. Out on thy foolery ! 
Ber. Dost thou remember 

How on our throne of turf, with birchen 

crowns 
And willow branches waving in our hands, 
We shook our careless feet, and caroll'd out, 
And call'd ourselves the king and queen of 
Kent ? 
Ethw. Yes, children ever in their mimick 
play 
Such fairy state assume. 

Ber. And bearded men 

Do sometimes gild the dull enchanting face 
Of sombre stilly life with like conceits. 
Come, an' you will we'll go to play again. 

(tripping gailij round him.) 
Ethw. Who sent thee here to gambol round 

me thus .' 
Ber. Nay, fie upon thee I for thou know'st 
right well 
It is an errand of my own good will. 
Knowest thou not the wand ring clown is here 
Who doth the osier wands and rusiies weave 



Into all shapes : who chants gay stories too ; 

And who was wont to tell thee, when a boy, 

Of all the bloody wars of furious Penda^.'' 

E'en now he is at work before the gate. 

With heaps of pliant rushes round him 
strcw'd ; 

In which birds, dogs, and children roll and 
nestle. 

Whilst, crouching by his side, with watchful 
eye 

The playful kitten marks each trembling rush 

As he entwists his many circling bands. 

Nay, men and matrons, too, around him flock, 

And Ethelbert, low seated on a stone. 

With arms thus cross'd, o'erlooks his curious 
craft. 

Wilt thou not come .■' 

Ethw. Away, I care not for it ! 

Ber. Nay, do not shake thy head, for thou 
must come. 

This magic girdle will compel thy steps. 
(throws a girdle round him playfully, 
and pulls it till it breaks. 
Ethw. (smiling coldly.) Thou see'st it can- 
not hold me. (Bertha's face chan- 
ges immediately : she bursts into tears, 
and turns away to conceal it.) 
Ethw. (soothing her.) My gentle Bertha ! 
little foolish maid ! 

Why fall those tears ? Wilt thou not look on 
me .'' 

Dost thou not know I am a wayward man, 

Sullen by fits, but meaning no unkindness ? 
Ber. O thou were wont to make the hall 
rejoice ; 

And cheer the gloomy face of dark Decem- 
ber ! 
Ethw. And will, perhaps, again. Cheer 
up, my love ! (assuming a cheerful 
voice.) 

And plies the wand'ring clown his pleasing 
craft. 

Whilst dogs and men and children round 
him flock .'' 

Come, let us join them too. (holding out his 
hand to her, whilst she smiles thro' 
her tears.) 

How course those glancing drops adown thy 
cheeks, 

Like to a whimp'ring child .' fie on thee. Ber- 
tha ! (wipes off her tears, and leads 
her out affectionately.) [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — a narrow stone gallery 

OR passage. 

(Voice without.) Haste, lazy comrade, there ! 

Enter two Servants by opposite sides, one of 
them carrying mats of rushes in his arms. 
First Serv. Set'st thou thy feet thus softly 
to the ground, — 
As if thou had'st been paid to count thy 

steps .'' 
What made thee stay so long ? 

Second Serv. Heard you the news.'' 
First Serv. The news ? 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



146 



Second Serv. Ay, by the mass ! sharp 

news indeed. 
And mark me well ; beforehand I have said 

it; 
Some of those spears now hanging in the hall 
Will wag i' the field ere long. 
First Serv. Thou hast a marv'llous gift of 
prophecy. 
I know it well ; but let us hear thy news. 
Second Serv. Marry ! the Britons and their 
restless prince, 
Join'd with West Anglia's king, a goodly 

host, 
Are now in Mercia, threat'ning all with ruin. 
And over and besides, God save us all ! 
They are but five leagues off. 
Tis true. And over and besides again. 
Our king is on his way to give them battle. 
Ay, and moreover all, if the late floods 
Have broken down the bridge, as it is fear'd, 
He must perforce pass by our castle walls, 
And then thou shalt behold a goodly shew ! 
First Serv. Who brought the tidings .'' 
Second Serv. A soldier sent on horseback 
all express : 
E'en now I heard him tell it to the Thane, 
Who cautioned me to tell it unto none, 
That Ethwald might not hear it. 

First Serv. And thou in sooth obey'st his 
caution well. 
Now- hear thou this from me : thou'art a lout ; 
And over and besides a babbling fool ; 
Ay, and moreover all, I'll break thy head 
If thou dost tell again, in any wise, 
The smallest tittle of it. 

Second Serv. Marry ! I can be as secret as 
thyself ! 
I tell not those who blab. 

First Serv. Yes, yes, thy caution is most 
scrupulous ; 
Thou'lt whisper it in Ethwald's hither ear. 
And bid the farther not to know of it. 
Give me those trusses. 
Second Serv. Yes, this is made for my old 
master's seat. 
And this, so soft, for gentle lady Bertha, (g^iv- 

the mats.) 
And this, and this, and this for Ethelbert. 
But see thou put a sprig of mountain-ash 
Benath it snugly. Dost thou understand .' 
First Serv. What is thy meaning ? 
Second Serv. It hath power to cross aJl 
wicked spells ; 
So that a man may sit next stool to th' devil, 
If he can lay but slyly such a twig 
Beneath his seat, nor suffer any harm. 

First Serv. I wish there were some herb of 
secret power 
To save from daily skaith of blund'ring fools : 
I know beneath whose stool it should be 

press'd. 
Get thee along ! the feast smokes in the hall. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. a saxon hall with the 

WALLS hung round WITH ARMOUR. 
MOLLO, ETHELBERT, SELRED, ETH- 

18 



WALD, BERTHA, SIGURTHA, AND OTH- 
ERS, ARE DISCOVERED SITTING ROUND 
A TABLE ON WHICH STAND GOBLETS 
AND FLAGGONSj &C. AFTER A FEAST. 

Eth. Nay, gentle Bertha, if thou followest 
him. 

Sheer of those lovely tresses from thy head, 

And with a frowning helmet shade those 
eyes : 

E'en with thy prowess added to his own, 

Methinks he will not be surcharg'd of means 

To earn his brilliant fortune in the field. 
Bcr. Nay, rather will I fill a little scrip 

With sick-men's drugs and salves for fest'ring 
wounds. 

And journey by his side, a trav'lling leech. 
Set. That will, indeed, no unmeet comrade 
be 

For one whose fortune must be earn'd with 
blows 

Borne by no substitutes. 

Etkw. Well jested. Thanes ! 

But some, ere now, with fortune earn'd by 
blows 

Borne by no substitutes, have placed their 
mates 

Above the gorgeous dames of castled lords. 

Cheer up, sweet Bertha ! 

For ev'ry drug ta'en from thy little scrip 

I'll pay thee back with 

Etii. Sticks the word i' his throat. 

Set. It is too great for utt'rance. 
Eth. Here's to your growing honours, fu- 
ture chief; 

And here is to the lofty dame who shall be — 

{they all drink ironically to Ethw. «n<i Berth.) 
Mollo. (seriously.) Here is a father's wish 
for thee, my son, (to Ethw.) 

Better than all the glare of fleeting greatness. 

Be thou at home the firm domestic prop 

Of thine old father's house, in this as honour'd 

As he who bears far hence advent'rous arms ! 

Nor think thee thus debarred from warlike 
deeds : 

Our neighb'ring chiefs are not too peaceable, 

And much adventure breed in little space. 
Ethic. What ! shall 1 in their low destruc- 
tive strife 

Put forth my strength, and earn with valiant 
deeds 

The fair renown of mighty Woggarwolfe, 

The flower of all those heroes ? Hateful ruf- 
fian ! 

He drinks men's blood and human flesh de- 
vours ! 

For scarce a heifer on his pasture feeds 

Which hath not cost a gallant warrior's life. 

I cry you mercy, father ! you are kind. 

But I do lack the grace to thank you for it. 
(Mollo leans on the table and looks sad.) 
Sigur. (to Mol.) Good uncle, you are sad ! 
Our gen'rous Ethwald 

Contemns not his domestic station here, 

Tho' little willing to enrich your walls 

With spoils of petty war. 



iM 



ETHWALD:A TRAGEDY. 



Ethw. (seeing his father sad, and assuming 

cheerfulness.) 
Nay, father, if your heart is set on spoil, 
Let it be Woggarwolfe's that you shall covet. 
And small persuasion may suffice to tempt me. 
To plunder him will be no common gain. 
We feasters love the flesh of well-run game : 
And, faith ! the meanest beeve of all his herds 
Has hoofd it o'er as many weary miles. 
With goading pike-men hollowing at liis heels, 
As e'er the bravest antler of the woods. 
His very muttons, too, are noble beasts, 
For wiiich contending warriors have fought ; 
And tiirifty dames will find their fleece en- 

rich'd 
With the productions of full many a soil. 
Ber. How so, my Ethwald ? 
Ethw. Countest thou for nought 

Furze from the upland moors, and bearded 

down. 
Torn from the thistles of the sandy plain .'' 
The sharp-tooth'd bramble of the shaggy 

woods 
And tufted seeds from the dark marsh ? Good 

sooth ; 
She well may triumph in no vulgar skill 
Who spins a coat from it. 
And then his wardrobe, too, of costly geer, 
Which from the wallets of a hundred thieves, 
Has been transferring for a score of years. 
In endless change, it will be noble spoil ! 
(A trumpet is heard toithout, and Ethw. starts 

from, his seat.) 
Ha ! 'tis the trumpet's voice ! 
What royal leader this way shapes his route .' 
(a silent pause.) 
Ye answer not, and yet ye seem to know. 

Enter Skrvants in haste. 

Good fellows, what say ye .' 
First Serv. The king ! the king ! and with 

five thousand men ! 
Second Serv. I saw his banners from the 
battlements 
Waving between the woods. 

Third Serv. And so did I. 

His spear-men onward move in dusky lines, 
Like the brown reeds that skirt the winter 
pool. 
Set. WeW, well, there needs not all this 
.woi^d'ring din : 
He passes on, and we shall do our part. 
First Serv. The foe is three leagues off. 
Set. Hold thy fool's tongue ! I want no in- 
formation. 
(Ethwald remains for a ibhilc thoughtful, 
then, running eagerly to the end of the hall, 
climbs up and snatches from the loalls a 
sicord and shield, with which he is about to 
run out.) 

Mollo. {tottering from his seat.) 
O go not forth, my rasii impetuous son ! 
Stay yet a term beneath thy father's roof, 
And, were it at the cost of half my lands, 
I'll send thee out accoiitrcd like a Thane. 
Ethw. No, rev'rend sire, these be my patri- 
mony I 



I ask of thee no more, 

Ber. And wilt thou leave us .' 
Mollo. Ay, he'll break thy heart, 

And lay me in the dust ! {trumpet sounds 
again, and Ethw. turning hastily 
from them, runs out.) 
Ber. Oh ! he is gone for ever ! 
Eth. Patience, sweet Bertha! 
SeL. The castle gates are shut by my com- 
mand, 
He cannot now escape. Holla, good friends ! 
{to tliose loithout.) 

Enter Followers. 
All quickly arm yourselves, and be prepared 
To follow me before the fall of eve. 

Eth. Send out my scout to climb the far- 
ther hill, 
And spy if that my bands are yet in sight. 

[Exeunt Followers. 
Now let us try to tame this lion's whelp. 
Enter Servant in haste. 
Set. What tidings man ? Is Ethwald at the 

gate .' 
Ser. No, good my Lord, nor yet within the 

walls. 
Sel. What, have they open'd to him ? 
Ser. No, my Lord, 

Loudly he call'd, but when it was refus'd. 
With glaring eyes, like an enchafed wolf. 
He hied him were the lowest southern wall 
Rises but little o'er the rugged rock ; 
There, aided by a half projecting stone. 
He scal'd its height, and holding o'er his 

head 
His sword and shield, grasp'd in his better 

hand. 
Swam the full moat. 

Eth. (to Sel.) O, noble youth ! 
Did I not say, you might as well arrest 
The fire of Heav'n within its pitchy cloud 
As keep him here ? (Bertha /amfs away.) 

Alas, poor maid ! 

(Whilst SiGURTHA and Eth. &c. attend to 
Bertha, enter followers and retainers, and 
begin to take down the armour from the walls. 
Enter Woggarwolke.) 

JVog. {to Sel.) They would have shut your 

gate upon me now. 
But I, commission'd on the king's aff'airs. 
Commanded entrance. Oswal greets you, 

chiefs, 
And gives you orders, with your followers, 
To jom him speedily, {seeing Bertha.) 
What, swooning women here .•" 

Sel. Ethwald is gone in spite of all our care, 
And she, thou know'st, my father's neice's 

child. 
Brought up with him from early infancy, 
Is therein much affected. 

IVog. {smiling.) O, it is ever thus ; I know 

it well. 
When striplings are concerned ! Once on a 

time, 
A youthful chief I seized in his own hall, 
When, on the instant, was the floor around 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



147 



With fainting maids and shrieking matrons 

strew'd, 
As tho' the end of all things had been link'd 
Unto my fatal grasp. 

Sel. (eagerly.) Thou didst not slay him .' 
Wog. {smiling contemptuously.) Ask Selred 

if I slew mine enemy ? 
Sel. Then, by heav'ns light, itwas a ruffian's 

deed ! . 

Wog. I cry thee grace ! wear'st thou a virgin 
sword ? 
Maidens turn pale when they do look on blood, 
And men there be who sicken at the sight, 
If men they may be call'd. 

Sel. Ay, men there be, 

Who sicken at the sight of crimson butchery. 
Yet in the battle's heat will far out-dare 
A thousand shedders of unkindled blood. 
Et/i. {coming forioard.) Peace, Thanes ! this 
is no time for angry words. 
(Bertha giving a deep sigh, Eth. and Sel. go 
to her and leave Wog. icho heeds her not, 
but looks at the men taking the arms from the 
walls. — Observing one who hesitates between 
Ihcsicords.) 

Wog. Fool, chose the other blade ! 
That weight of steel will noble gashes make ! 
Nay, rightly guided in a hand like thine. 
Might cleave a man down to the nether ribs. 

aia-. {to Bertha, as she is recovering.) 
My gentle child, how art thou ? 

Ber. And no kind hand to hold him ! 
Etli. Be not cast down, sweet maid ; he'll 
soon return ; 
All are not lost who join in chanceful war. 
Ber. I know right well, good Thane, all are 
not lost. 
The native children of rude jarring war. 
Full oft returning from the field, become 
Beneath their shading helmets aged men : 
But ah, the kind, the playful, and the gay ; 
They who have gladden'd their domestic 

board. 
And cheer'd the winter fire, do they return .' 
{shaking her head sorroiefully.) 
I grieve you all : I will no more complain. 
Dear mother, lead me hence, {to Sig.^ 
( To Sel.) I thank you, gentle Selred, this 
suffices. 
[Exeunt Bertha, supported by Sigurtha. 
Sel. {to Mollo who has sat for some time with 
his face covered.) What, so o'ercome, my 
father .' 
Moll. I am o'ercome, my son ; lend me thine 
arm. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



Scene I. — a forest : the view of an 

ABBEY WITH ITS SPIRES IN THE BACK 
GROUND. 

Enter the King, attended by Seagurth and 
several Tjianes and followers, some of thein 
wounded, and their wounds bound up, as after 
a battle. A flourish of trumpets : the King 



stretches out his arm in the action of command j 
the trumpets cease, and they all halt. 
King. Companions of this rough and 

bloody day. 
Beneath the kindly shelter of this wood 
A while repose, until our eager youth, 
Shall, from the widely spread pursuit re- 
turned, 
Rejoin our standards. 
Brave Seneschal, thou'rt weak with the loss 

of blood ; 
Forbear attendance. Ay, and thou, good 

Baldrick : 
And thou, {to another) and all of you. 

Sen. No, gracious king ; 

The sight of you, unhurt, doth make the 

blood 
That in our veins remains so kindly glow, 
We cannot faint. 
King. Thanks, noble chiefs ! dear is the gain 

I earn. 
Purchased with blood so prpcious. Who are 

those 
Who thitherward in long procession move .'' 
Sen. It is the pious brethren, as I guess, 
Come forth to meet you front yon neighb'ring 

abbey, 
And at their head the holy Hexulf comes. 

Enter Hexulf and Monks. 
Hex. Accept our humble greetings, royal 

sire ! 
Victorious be your arms ! and in the dust 
Low be your foes, as in this glorious day ! 
Favour'd of heav'n, and of St. Alban, hail ! 
King. I thank your kindly zeal, my rev 'rend 

father ; 
And from these holy brethren do accept 
With thanks this token of good will, not 

doubting 
That much I am beholden to your prayers.' 
Hex. In truth, most gracious king, your 

armed host 
Has not more surely in your cause prevail'd 
Than hath our joint petition, offer'd up 
With holy fervour, most importunate. 
Soon as the heav'n-rais'd voices sweetly 

reach'd 
The echoing arches of yon sacred roofs, 
Saint Alban heard, and to your favour'd side 
Courao-e and strength, the soul of battle, sent ; 
Fear and distraction to th' opposing foe. 
King. Ah, then, good father, and ye pious 

monks ! 
Would that ye had begun your prayers the 

sooner ! 
For long in doubtful scales the battle hung ; 
And of the men who, with this morning's sun, 
Buckled there harness on to follow me. 
Full many a valiant warriour, on his back 
Lies stifFning to the wind. 

Hex. The wicked sprite in ev'ry armed host 
Will find his friends ; who doubtless for a time 
May counterpoise the prayers of holy men. 
There are among your troops, I question not, 
Many who do our sacred rites contemn : 
Many who have blasphem'd— Ay, good my 

Lord ; j 



148 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



And many holding baleful heresies. 
Fought llthelbert, of Sexford, in your host? 
King. He did, my rev'rend father, bravely 
fought : 
To him and valiant Selred, Mollo's son, 
Belong the second honours of the day. 

(Hexulf ZooAs abash' d, and is silent.) 

Enter Edward attended, who, after making his 
obeisance to the King, runs up eagerly to 
Seagurth. 

Edw. You are not wounded, father ? 

Sea. No, my boy. 

Edw. Thanks to preserving goodness ! 
Noble Thanes, 
It grieves me much to see those swathed limbs. 
War wears a horrid, yet alluring face. 

{To King.) Your friends, my Lord, have 
done me great despite. 
Had they not long detain'd me on the way, 
!• should have been with you before the battle. 

King. Complain not, youth ; they had, in 
this, commands 
Too high to be disputed. And 'tis well. 
For we have had a rough and bloody day. 

Edw. Ha! is it so.' But you have been 
victorious. 
How went the field .' 

Sea. Loud rose our battle's sound, and for 
a while 
The Mercians bravely fought ; when, all at 

once, 
From some unlook'd-for cause, as yet un- 
known, 
A powerful panic seiz'd our better wing, 
Which, back recoiling, turn'd and basely fled. 
Touch'd quickly with a seeming sympathy. 
Our centre-force began, in laxed strength, 
To yield contended space. — So stood the field ; 
When on a sudden, like those warriour spirits. 
Whose scatter'd locks the streamy iight'- 

ning is, 
Whose spear the bolt of heaven ; such as 

the seer 
In 'tranced gaze beholds midst hurtling storms, 
Rush'd forth a youth unknown, and in a pass. 
Narrow and steep, took his determin'd stand. 
His beck'ning hand and loud commanding 

voice 
Constrain'd our flying soldiers from behind, 
And the sharp point of his opposing spear 
Met the pale rout before. 
The dark returning battle thicken'd round him. 
Deeds of amazement wrought his mighty arm ; 
Rapid, resistless, terrible. 
High rose each warlike bosom at the sight, 
And Mercia,like a broad increasing wave. 
Up swell'd into a hugely billow'd height, 
O'erwhelming in its might all lesser tilings. 
Upon the foe return'd. Selred and Ethelbert 
Fell on their weaken'd flank. Confusion, then, 
And rout and horrid slaughter fill'd the field : 
Wide spread the keen pursuit ; the day is ours; 
Yet many a noble Mercian strews the plain. 

Edio. (eagerly.) But the young hero fell 
not? 

Sea. No, my son. 



Edw. Then bless'd be Heav'n ! there beats 

no noble heart 
Which shall not henceforth love him as a 

brother. 
Would he were come unhurt from the pursuit ! 

that I had beheld him in his might, 
When the dark battle turn'd ! 

Sea. Your wish is soon fulfiU'd, my eager 

boy ; 
For here, in truth, the youthful warriour 

comes. 
And, captive by his side, the British Prince. 

Enter EthavalD with the British Prince pris- 
oner, accompanied ■ by Selred and Ethel- 
bert, and presents his prisoner to the King. 

King, (to Prince.) Prince of the Britons, 

clear thy cloudy brow ; 
The varied fate of war the bravest prove. 
And tho' I might complain that thy aggressions 
Have burnt my towns, and fiU'd my land 

with blood. 
Thy state forbids it. Here, good Seneschal, 
Receive your charge, and let him know no 

change 
Unsuited to a prince. (To Ethwald.) 
And thou, brave warriour, whose youthfuljarm 
Has brought unto thy king so high a gift, 
Say, what proud man may lift liis honour 'd 

head. 
And boast he is thy father. 

Ethw. A Thane, my Lord, forgotten and 

retired : 

1 am the youngest son of aged Mollo, 
And Ethwald is my name. 

King. Youngest in years, tho' not in hon- 
our, youth. 
E'en tho' the valiant Selred is thy brother. 

(turning to Selred.) 
And now be thou the first and noble root. 
From which a noble race shall take its growth, 
Wearing thy honours proudly ! 
Of Marnieth's earldom be thou the Lord ! 
For well I know the council of the states 
Will not refuse to ratify my grant. 
And thou, brave Ethelbert, and Selred, too, 
Ye well have earn'd a noble recompense. 
And shall not be forgot. Come hither, 

Edward; 
Take thou this hero's hand ; and, noble Eth- 
wald, 
Thus let the kingdom's ethling join with me 
In honouring thy worth. 
(Edward, who has gazed at some distance upon 

Ethwald, springing forward eagerly.) 
Give him my hand, my Lord ! have you not 

said 
That I should fold him to my burning heart ? 
(Embraces Ethw.) Most valiant Ethwald, 
Fain would I speak the thoughts I bear to 

thee. 
But they do choke and flutter in my throat, 
And make me like a child. (passing his 
hand acro.<ts his eyes.) 
Ethw. (kissing Edward's hand.) I am re- 
paid beyond a kingdom's worth. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



149» 



Edw. (to Sea. hounding joyfully.) Father, 
have you embraced him .'' 
Ethwald, my father is a valiant man. 
(Sea. embraces Ethw. hut not so eagerly as 
Edwr.) 

King, (to Ethw.) Brave youth, with you, 
and with your noble friends, 
I shall, ere long, have further conference. 
{retires to the hottom of the stage with 
Hexulf; 
(Edward, after gazing with admiration upon 
Ethw. puts his hand upon his head, as if 
to measure his height; then upon both his 
shoulders, as if he were considering the 
breadth of his chest ; then steps some paces 
hack, and gazes on him again.) 
Edw. How tall and strong thou art ! broad 
is thy chest : 
Stretch forth, I pray, that arm of mighty 

deeds. 
(Ethw. smiles and stretches out his arm; Edw. 

looks at it, and then at his cncn.) 
Would I were nerv'd like thee ! 
(taking Ethw's sword.) It is of weight to 

suit no vulgar arm. 
(Returning it.) There, hero; graceful is the 

sword of war 
In its bold master's grasp. 
Ethw. Nay, good my Lord, if you will hon- 
our me, 
It does too well your noble hand become 
To be return'dto mine. 

Edw. Ha! say'stthouso .' Yes, I will keep 
thy pledge. 
Perhaps my arm — Ah, no ! it will not be ! 
But what returning token can I give .-" 
I have bright spears and shields, and shining 

blades. 
But nought ennobled by the owner's use. 
(Takes a bracelet from his arm, and fastens it 
round Ethwald's.) 

King. (Jldvancing from the bottom oj the 
stage.) 
My worthy chiefs and Thanes, the night 

wears on : 
The rev'rend bishop, and these pious men, 
Beneath their fane give hospitality. 
And woo us to accept it for the night. 

Sea. I thought, my Lord , you meant to pass 
the night 
With your brave soldiers in the open field : 
Already they have learnt the pleasing tale. 
Shall 1 unsay it .' 

King. Nay, that were unfit. 

I pray you pardon me, my rev'rend father ! 
I cannot house with you, it were unfit. 

Hex. Should not your greatness spend the 
night with those 
To whom, in truth, you owe the victory ? 
We chant at midnight to St. Alban's praise : 
Surely my Lord regards those sacred things. 
(iVliispers the King.) 
King. Brave Seagurth, there are reasons of 
good weight 
Why I should lay aside my first intent. 
Let all these wounded chieftains follow me : 
The rest who list may keep the open field. 



(to Edw.) Nephew, thou must not prove a 

soldier's hardships, 
Ere thou hast earn'd a soldier's name. Nay, 

nay. 
It must be so. 

[Exeunt King, icoundcd Chiefs, Hexulf and 
Monks, followed by Edward very unwil- 
lingly. 

Sea. Who loves a soldier's pillow, follow 
me. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — the outside of mollo's 

CASTLE. bertha, SIG0RTHA, AND 
OTHERS DISCOVERED ON THE WALLS, 
AND SEVERAL SERVANTS AND RETAIN- 
ERS STANDING BY THE GATE BELOW. 

Berth. O, will they ne'er appear? Ill look 
no more ; 
Mine eager gazing but retards their coming. 
(Retires, and immediately returns again.) 
Holla, good Murdoch ! (to a Servant below.) 
Thou putl'st thy hand above thy sunned eyes : 
Dost tiiou descry them .' 

First Ser. Mercy, gentle Lady, 
If you descry them not from that high perch. 
How should I from my level station here ? 

Sig. (to Berth.) Go in, my child, thou art 
worn out with watching. 
(Berth, retires, and 2d Servant goes at sovie 

distance from the walls, and looks out anoth- 
er way.) 

Sec. Ser. Here comes the noble Selred. 
{Ml call out.) Noble Selred ! 

Berth, (returning upon the wall.) What, 
Ethwald, say ye ? 

Sig. No, it is Selred. 

Enter Selred with followers, and looks up to 

the walls, where Sigurtha waves her hand. 

Sig. Welcome, brave Selred ! welcome all 
thy band ! 
How far are they behind for whom we watch .' 

5'e/. Two little miles or less. Methinks ere 
this 
Their van should be in sight. 
My messenger inform'd you ? 

Sig. Oh, he did ! 

Sel. Where is my father .' 

Sig. He rests within, spent with a fearful 

And silent tears steal down his furrow'd 
cheeks. 
Sel. I must confer with him. The king in- 
tends 
To stop and do him honour on his march, 
But enters not our walls. 

[Exeunt into the castle. 

Scene III.— a chamber in the cas- 
tle. 

Enter Sigurtha and Bertha, speaking as they 
enter. 

Berth. Nay, Mother, say not so: was he not 
wont, 
If but returning from the daily chace. 
To send an upward glance unto that tower ? 



!50 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



There well he knew, or late or cold the hour, 
His eye should find me. 

Sig. My gentle Bertha, be not thus disturb'd. 
Such busy scenes, such new unlook'd for 

things 
Ruffle the flowing stream of habit ; men 
Will then forgetful seem, tho' not unkind. 

Berth. Think'st thou ? (shaking her head.) 
I saw him by liis sov'reign stand, 
And O, how graceful I every eye to him 
Was turn'd, and every face smil'd honours on 

him ; 
Yet his proud station quickly did he leave. 
To greet his humbler friends who stood aloof. 
The meanest follower of these walls, already, 
Some mark of kind acknowledgment hath 

had— 
He look'd not up — I am alone forgotten ! 
Sig. Be patient, child : he will not long 

delay 
To seek thee in thy modest privacy; 
Approving more to see tliee here retired 
Than, boldly to the army's eye exposed, 
Greeting his first approach. 1, the mean 

while. 
Intrusted am with orders from the Thane, 
Which must not be neglected. [Exit. 

Berth, (after walking up and down, agitated 
and frequently stopping to listen?) 
Ah no ! deceiv'd again ! I need not listen ! 
No bounding steps approach. 

(She sits dmon despondingly.) 

Enter Ethwald behind, and steals softly up 
to her. 

Ethw. Bertha! 

Berth, (starting up.) My Ethwald ! (he holds 
out his arms to her joyfully, and she 
hursts into tears.) 
Ethw. Thou dost not grieve that I am safe 

rcturn'd .'' 
Berth. O no ! I do not grieve, yet I must 
weep. 
Hast thou, in truth, been kind.^ I will not 

chide : 
I cannot do it now. 

Ethic. O, fie upon thee ! like a wayward 
child 
To look upon me thus ! cheer up, my love. 
(He smiles upon her joyfully, and her counte- 
nance brightens. She then puts her hand 
upon his arm, and, stepping back a little 
space, surveys him with delight.) 
Berth. Thou man of mighty deeds ! 
Thou, whom the brave shall love, and princes 

honour ! 
Dost thou, in truth, return to me again. 
Mine own, my very Ethwald ? 

Ethw. No, that were paltry : I return to 
thee 
A thousand fold the lover thou hast known 

me. 
I have, of late, been careless of thee. Bertha. 
The hopeless calm of dull obscurity, 
Like the thick vapours of a stagnant pool, 
Oppress'd my heart, and smother'd kind 
affections ; 



But now th' enliv'ning breeze of fortune 

wakes 
My torpid soul — When did I ever'fold thee 
To such a warm and bounding heart as this ? 
[{Embraces her.) 
The king has given meMairnieth's earldom — 
Nay, smile my Bertha ! 

Berth. So I do, my Ethwald. 
Ethic. The noble ethling greatly honours 
me 
With precious tokens : nay, the very soldiers 
Do cock their pointed weapons as I pass ; 
As tho' it were to say, " there goes the man 
That we would cheerly follow." 
Unto what end these fair beginnings point 
I know not — but of this I am assured. 
There is a course of honour lies before me, 
Be it with dangers, toil, or pain beset. 
Which I will boldly tread. Smiles not my 
love .•' 
Berth. I should, in truth : but how is this ? 
methinks 
Thou ever look'st upon the things to come, 
I on the past. A great and honour'd man 
I know thou'lt be : but O, bethink thee, then ! 
How once thou wert, within these happy walls 
A little cheerful boy, with curly pate, 
Who led the infant Bertha by the hand, 
Storing her lap with ev'ry gaudy flower ; 
With speckled eggs stol'n from the hedge- 
ling's nest. 
And berries from the tree : ay, think on this, 
And then I know thou'lt love me ! 
(Trumpet sounds. Catching hold of him 

eagerly.) 
Hear'st thou that sound .' The blessed saints 

preserve thee ! 
Must thou depart so soon .' 

Ethw. Yes,of necessity : reasons of weight 
Constrain the king, and I, new in his service, 
Must seem to follow him with willing steps. 
But go thou with me to the castle gate. 
We will not part until the latest moment. 
Berth. Yet stop, I pray, thou must receive 
my pledge. 
See'st thou this woven band of many dyes, 
Like to a mottled snake .' its shiny woof 
Was whiten'd in the pearly dew of eve. 
Beneath the silver moon : its varied warp 
Was dyed with potent herbs, at midnight 

cull'd. 
It hath a wondrous charm : the breast that 

wears it 
No change of soft affection ever knows. 
Ethic, (receiving it with a smile.) I'll wear 
it. Bertha. (Trumpet sounds.) 

Hark ! it calls me hence. 

Berth. O go not 3'et ! here is another gift, 
This ring enrich'd with stone of basilisk. 
Whenever press'd by the kind wearer's hand, 
Presents the giver's image to his mind. 
Wilt thou not wear it ? 
Ethw. (receiving it.) Yes, and press it too. 
Berth. And in this purse — (taking out a 

purse.) 
Ethw. What ! still another charm .' (laugh- 
ing) 



ETHW^LD : A TRAGEDY. 



161 



Thou simple maid ! 
Dost thou believe that witched geer like this 
Hath power a lovet faithful to^ retain, 
More than thy gentle self? 
Berth. Nay, laugh, but wear them. 
Ethw. I will, my love, since thou wilt have 
it so. 
(^Putting them in his breast.) Here are they 

lodged, and cursed be the hand 
That plucks them forth ! And now receive 

my pledge. 
It is a jewel of no vulgar worth : (ties it on 

her arm.) 
Wear it, and think of me. But yet, belike. 
It must be steep'd into some wizard's pot, 
Or have some mystic rhyming muttered o'er it, 
Ere it will serve the turn. 

Berth, (pressing the jewel on her arm.) 
O no ! right well I feel there is no need. 
Ethxc. Come, let us go : we do not part, 
thou know'st. 
But at the castle gate. Cheer up, my Ber- 
tha ! 
I'll soon return, and oft return again. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — an apartment in a royal 

CASTLE. 

Enter Ethwald and Alwy, speaking as they 
enter. 

Ethw. What peace ! peace, say'st thou, 

with these glorious arms. 
In conquest red, occasion bright'ning round 

us, 
And smiling victory, with beck'ning hand. 
Pointing to future fields of nobler strife, 
With richer honours crown'd.'' What, on 

the face 
Of such fair prospects draw the veil of peace ! 
Cold blasting peace ! The blackest fiend of 

hell 
Hath not a thought more dev'lish ! 

Alwy. It is indeed, a flat unpleasant tale 
For a young warrior's ear : but well hast 

thou 
Improv'd the little term of bold occasion ; 
Short while thou wert but Mollo's younger 

son. 
Now art thou Mairnieth's lord. 

Ethw. And what is Mairnieth's lordship ! 

I will oWn 
That, to my distant view, such state appear'd 
A point of fair and noble eminence ; 
But now — what is it now .'' O ! it is sunk 
Into a petty knoll ! I am as one 
Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's 

height, 
And having gained what to the upcast eye 
The summit's point appeared, astonish'd sees 
It's cloudy top, majestic and enlarged, 
Towering aloft, as distant as before. 

Mwy. Patience, brave Ethwald ; ere thy 

locks are grey. 
Thy helmed head shall yet in battle tower, 



And fair occasion shape thee fair reward. 
Ethw. Ere that my locks are grey ! the 
world ere now 
Hath crouch'd beneath a beardless youth. 

But I— 
I am as one who mounts to th' azure sky 
On the rude billow's back, soon sunk again : 
Like the loud thunder of th' upbreaking cloud, 
The terror of a moment. Fate perverse ! 
'Till now, war's frowning spirit wont, when 

rous'd, 
To urge with whirling lash his sable steeds. 
Nor slack his furious speed till the wide land 
From bound to bound beneath his axle shook : 
But soon as in my hand the virgin spear 
Had flesh'd its ruddy point, then is he turn'd 
Like a tired braggard to his caves of sloth. 

(stamping on the ground.) 
Peace ! cursed peace ! Who will again un- 
chain 
The grizly dog of war ? 
Mioy. Mean'st thou the British prince .'' 
Ethw. (eagerly.) What say'st thou, Alwy .' 
Mwy. I said not aught. 
Ethw. Nay, marry ! but thou didst! 
And it has rais'd a thought within my mind. 
The British prince releas'd, would he not 

prove 
A dog of war, whose yell would soon be 
follow'd .'' 
Alloy. They do indeed full hard advantage 
take 
Of his captivity, and put upon him 
Conditions suited to his hapless state. 
More than his princely will. 
Ethw. 'Tis basely done : would that some 
friendly hand 
His prison Would unbar, and free the thrall ! 
But no, no, no ! I to the king resign'd him ; 
'Twere an unworthy deed. 

Alwy. It were most difficult ; 
For now they keep him in a closer hold. 
And bind his hands Avith iron. 

Ethw. Have they done this.' I'm glad 
on't ! O I'm glad on't ! 
They promised nought unworthy of a prince 
To put upon him — Now my hands are free ! 
And, were it made of living adamant, 
I will unbar his door. Difficult, say'st thou ! 
No, this hath made it easy. 
Ahoy. Well, softly then ; we may devise a 
way 
By which the Seneschal himself will seem 
The secret culprit in this act. 

Ethw. No, no ! 

1 like it not : tho' I must work i' the dark, 
I'll not in cunningly devised light 
Put on my neighbour's cloak to work his ruin. 
But let's to work a-pace ! the storm shall rise ! 
My sound shall yet be heard ! 
Alwy. Fear not, thou shall ere long be 
heard again, 
A dark'ning storm which shall not soon be 
lay'd. 
EthiD. Ah, thou hast touch'd where my 
life's life is cell'd ! 
Is there a voice of prophecy within thee ? 



ETHWALD : A TRAQEDY. 



(catching hold of his arm eagerly.) 
I will believe there is ! my stirring soul 
Leapt at thy words. Such things ere now 

have been : 
Men oft have spoke, unweeting of themselves; 
Yea, the wild winds of night have utter'd 

words, 
That have unto the list'ning ear of hope 
His future greatness told, ere yet his thoughts 
On any certain point had fix'd their hold. 
Alwy. Thou may'st believe it : I myself, 
methinks, 
Feel seci'et earnest of thy future fortune ; 
And please myself to think my friendly hand 
May humbly serve, perhaps, to build thy 
greatness. 
Ethw. Come to my heart, my friend ! tho' 
new in friendship, 
Thou, and thou only, bear'st true sympathy 
With mine aspiring soul. I can with thee 
Unbar my mind — Methinks thou shiv'rest, 
Alwy. 
Mwy. 'Tis very cold. 
Ethic. Is it .'' I feel it not : 
But in my chamber burns the crackling oak ; 
There let us go. 

Mwy. If you are so inclin'd. 
(Jls they arc going Ethw. stops short, and 
catches hold of Alwy eagerly.) 
Ethw. A sudden fancy strikes me : Wog- 
garwolfe. 
That restless ruffian, might with little art 
Be rous'd on Wessex to commit aggression : 
Its royal chief, now leaguing with our king. 
Will take the field again. 
Alwy. We might attempt him instantly : 
but move. 
In faith I'm cold ! [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — a dare apartment in 

THE SAME CASTLE. WOGGARWOLFE 

IS DISCaVERED ASLEEP UPON A COUCH 

; OF RUSHES, AND COVERED WITH A MAT. 

Enter Alwy and a Follower, with a lad bear- 
ing a torch before them. Alwy signs with 
his hand, and the torch-bearer retires to a 
distance. 

Alwy. Softly, ere wo proceed ; a sudden 
thought, 
Now crossing o'er my mind, disturbs me much, 
lie who to night commands tlie farther watch. 
Canst thou depend upon him .' 

Fol. Most perfectly ; and, free of hostile 
bounds, 
The British prince ere this pursues his way. 
Alwy. I'm satisfied : now to our present 
purpose. 
(As they advance towards the couch, Wog- 

garwolfe is heard sjyeaking in his sleep.) 
Hal speaks he in his sleep? some dream 

disturbs him : 
His quiv'ring limbs beneath the cov'ring 

move . 
He speaks again. 

IVog. (ill /lis sleep.) Swiff, in your package 
stow those dead men's gecr. 



And loose their noble coursers from the stall. 
Alwy. Ay, plund'ring in his sleep. 
IVog. Wipe thou that blade : 
Those bloody throats have drench'd it to the 
hilt. 
Alwy. O, hear the night-thoughts of that 
bloody hound ! 
I must awake him. Ho, brave Woggarwolfe '. 
Wog. Heap how those women scream ! we'll 

still them shortly. 
Alwy. Ho, Woggarwolfe ! 
Wog. Who calls me now .' cannot you mas- 
ter it .' 
(Alwy knocks upon the ground with his stick.) 
What, batt'ring on it still .' Will it not yield .' 
Then fire the gate. 
Alwy. {shaking him.) Ho, Woggarwolfe, 1 

say! 
Wog. (starting up half awake.) Is not the 

castle taken .'' 
Alwy. Yes, it is taken. 
Wog. (rubbing his eyes.) Pooh ! it is but a 

dream. 
Alwy. But dreams full oft are found of real 
events 
The forms and shadows. 
There is in very deed a castle taken. 
In which your Wessex foes have left behind 
Nor stuff, nor store, nor mark of living thing. 
Bind on thy sword, and call thy men to arms 1 
Thy boiling blood will bubble in thy veins, 
When thou hast heard it is the tower of 
Boruth. 
Wog. My place of strength ? 
Fol. Yes, chief; I spoke with one new from 
the West, 
Who saw the ruinous broil. 

Wog. By the black fiends of hell ! therein 
is stored 
The chiefest of my wealth. Upon its walls 
The armour of a hundred fallen chiefs 
Did rattle to the wind. 
Alwy. Now will it sound elsewhere. 

Wog. (in despair.) My noble steeds, and all 
my stalled kine ! 
O, the fell hounds ! no mark of living thing .' 
Fol. No mark of living thing. 
Wog. Ah ! and my little arrow-bearing boy ! 
He whom I spared amidst a slaughter'd heap, 
Smiling, all weetless of th' upUfted stroke 
Hung o'er his harmless head ! 
Like a tamed cub I rear'd him at my feet : 
He could tell biting jests, bold ditties sing, 
And quaff his foaming bumper at the board, 
With all the mock'ry of a little man. 
By heav'n, I'll leave alive within their walls, 
Nor maid, nor youth, nor infant at the breast, 
If they have slain that child ! blood-thirsty 
ruffians I 
Alwy. Ay, vengeance ! vengeance ! rouse 
thee like a man ! 
Occasion tempts ; the foe, not yet return'd. 
Have left their castle careless of defence. 
Call all thy followers secretly to arms : 
Set out upon the instant. 

Wog. By holy saints, I will ! reach me, I 
pray ! (pointing to his arms lying at 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



163 



a little distance from him.) 
Mwy. (giving them.) There, be thou speedy. 
fVog. {putting on his armour.) Curse on 
those loosen'd springs, they will not 
catch ! 
Oh, all the goodly armour I have lost! 
Light curses on my head ! if I do leave them. 
Or spear, or shield, or robe, or household 

stuff, 
Or steed within their stalls, or horn or hoof 
Upon their grassy liills ! (looking abouV.) 

What want I now .' 
Mine armour-man hath ta'en away my helm — 
Faith, and my target too! hell blast the buz- 
zard ! 

[Exit furiously. 
Alwy. (laughing.) Ethwald, we Jiave ful- 
filled thy bidding well, 
With little cost of craft ! But let us follow, 
And keep him to the bent. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 
Scene I. a small close grove, with 

A STEEP ROCKY BANK AT ONE END OF 
IT. SEVERAL PEASANTS ARE DISCOV- 
ERED STANDING UPON THE BANK, AS 
IF LOOKING AT SOME DISTANT SIGHT. 

1st. Pea. Good lack a day ! how many liv- 
ing souls. 
In wide. Confused, eddying motion mix'd, 
Like cross set currents on the restless face 
Of winter floods ! 

2d Pea. Where fight the Northern Mer- 
cians .' 
\st Pea. On the right. 

The gentle Ethling, as I am inform'd. 
Fights likewise on the right : Heav'n spare his 

head ! 
'Tis his first battle. 

'id Pea. Hear, hear ! still louder swells that 

horrid sound. 
\st Pea. Ay, many voices join in that loud 
din, 
Which soon shall shout no more. 

2d Pea. Ay, good neighbour. 

Full gloriously now looks that covered field. 
With all those moving ranks and glitt'ring 

arms ; 
But he who shall return by setting sun. 
Will see a sorry sight. 

(Jl loud distant noise.) 
1st Pea. Heav'n save us all ! it is the war- 
like yell 
Of those damn'd Britons that increaseth so. 
By all the holy saints, our men are worsted ! 
(an increasing noise heard without.) 
Look ! yonder look ! they turn their backs 
and fly. 
3d Pea. O blasting shame ! where fights 
brave Ethwald now .' 
He is, I fear, far in the distant wing. 
Let us be gone ! we are too near them here : 
19 



The flight comes this way : hear that horrid 

sound ! 
The saints preserve us ! 
(The sound of the battle increases , and is heard 

nearer. The Peasants come hastily dotan 

from the bank, and Exeunt. 

Enter Edward with several followers disor- 
dered and panic-strack. 

1st Fol. (looking round.) They cease to fol- 
low us : this thickest grove 
Has stopp'd the fell pursuit: here may we 

rest. 
(Edward throios himself doicn at the root of a 
tree, and covers his face icith his hands.) 
2d Fol. (filling his helmet with water from, 
a stream, and presenting it to Edw.) 
My prince, this cooling water will refresh you. 
Ed. (keeping his face still covered with one 

hand, and leaving him off with the other.) 
Away, away ! and do not speak to me ! 
(^ deep pause, the noise of the battle is again 
heard coming nearer.) 
1st Fol. We must not tarry here, (to Edw.) 
My Lord, the farther thickets of this wood 
Will prove a sure concealment : shall we 
move .'' 
Edw. (still covering his face.) Let the earth 
gape and hide me. (another deep pause.) 
3d Fol. to 1st. The sin of all this rout falls 
on thy head. 
Thou cursed Thane ! thou, and thy hireling 

knaves, 
First turn'd your backs and fled. 

1st Fol. to 3d. Thou liest, foul tongue ! it 
was thy kinsman, there. 
Who first did turn ; for I, was borne away, 

(jwinting to 4th Fol.) 
Unwillingly away, by the rude stream 
Of his fear-stricken bands. When, till this 

hour. 
Did ever armed Briton see my back ? 

4th Fol. Arm'd Britons dost thou call them .-' 
devils they are I 
Thou know'st right well they deal with wick 

ed sprites. 
Those horrid yells were not the cries of men ; 
And fiends of hell lookd thro' their flashing 

eyes. 
I fear to face the power of simple man 
As little as thyself. 

Enter more Fugitives. 

1st Fol. (to Ed.) Up, my good Lord ! Hence 
let us quickly move ; 
We must not stay. 

Ed. Then thrust me thro' and leave me. 
I'll flee no more, (looking up wildly, thenfix- 

Mio- his eyes loistfully upon 3d Follower, and 

bending one knee to the ground. ) 
Ebbert, thy sword is keen, thy arm is strong : 
O, quickly do't ! and I shall be witli those 
Who feel nor shame nor panic. 

3d Fol. and several others turn their faces 
away and weep.) 



154 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Enter more Fugitives. 

1st Fol. What, is all lost ? 
1st Fug. Yes, yes ! our wing is beaten. 
Seagurth alone, with a few desp'rate men. 
Still sets his aged breast against the storm ; 
But thick the aimed weapons round him fly, 
Like huntsmen's arrows round the toiled boar, 
And he will soon be nothing. 
JEdw. (startinir up.) O, God ! O, living 
God ! my noble father ! 
He has no son ! OiF, ye debasing fears ! 
I'll tear thee forth, base heart, if thou dost let 

me. 
(coming forward and stretching out his arms.) 
Companions, noble Mercians — Ah, false word! 
I may not call you noble. Yet, perhaps. 
One gen'rous spark within your bosom glows. 
Sunk in disgrace still lower tlian ye all, 
I may not urge — Who lists will follow me ! 
Mi loith one voice. We will all follow thee ! 
Ed. Will ye, in truth .? then we'll be brave 
men still, {brandishing his sword as 
he goes off.) 
My noble father ! 

[Exeunt, clashing their arms eagerly. 

Scene II. 

A confused noise of a battle is heard. The scene 
draws up, and discovers the British and 
Mercian armies engaged. Near the front of 
the stage they are seen in close fight, and the 
ground strew'd with several wounded and dead 
soldiers, as if they had been fighting for some 
time. Farther off, missile weapons and show- 
ers of arrows darken the air, and the view of 
the more distant battle is concealed in thick 
clouds of dust. The Mercians gain ground 
upon the Britons 3 and loud cries are raised by 
them to encourage one another. An active 
Mercian falls, and their progress is stopped 
whilst they endeavour to bear him off: 

Fallen Mercian. I'm slain, I'm slain ! tread 

o'er me and push forward. 
Mer. Chief. O stop not thus ! to it again, 

brave Mercians ! 
{The Mercians push on, encoiiraging one 
another with cries and clashing of 
arms : one of their bravest soldiers is 
wounded on the front of the stage, and 
staggers backwards.) 
Wounded Mer. Ay, this is death : O that 
my life had held 
To see the end of this most noble game ! (falls 
down, but seeing zAc Mercians about to push 
the Britons off the stage, raises himself half 
from the ground, and claps his liands exult- 
ingly.) 
Well fought, brave Mercian ! On, my {noble 
Mercians ! (sinlcs down again.) 

I am in darkness now ! a clod o' the earth ! 

(dies.) 
Britons (without.) Fresh succour, Britons ! 

courage ! victory ! 
Carwallen and fresh succour ! 
C The Britons now raise a terrible yell and 



push back the Mercians, loho yield ground 
and become spiritless and relaxed us their 
enemy becomes bolder. The Britons at last 
seize the Mercian standard, and raise 
another terrible yell, ichilst the Mercians give 
way on every side.) 
1st falling Mer. Hcrror and death ! the 

hand of wrath is o'er us ! 
2d falling Mer. A fell and fearful end \ a 

bloody lair ! 
The trampling foe to tread out brave men's 

breath ! 
(The Britons yell again, and the Mercians 
are nearly beat off the stage.) 
(Voice without.) Ethwald ! the valiant Eth- 

wald ! succour, Mercians ! 
(Voice within.) Hear ye, brave comrades! 

Ethwald is at hand. 

Enter Ethwald, with his sword drawn. 

Ethw. What, soldiers ! yield ye thus, while 
vict'ry smiles 
And bids us on to th' bent ? Your northerij 

comrades 
Mock at their savage howls, and drive before 

them 
These chafed boasts of prey. Come ! to it 

bravely ! 
To it, and let their mountain matrons howl. 
For these will soon be silent. 
Give me the standard. 

Voice. They have taken it. 
Ethw. Taken ! no, by the spirits of the 
brave ! 
Standard of ours on Snowdon winds to float ! 
No ! this shall fetch it back ! (taking off' his 
helmet and throwing it into the midst of the 
enemy, then rushing upon them bare-headed 
and sword in hand. The Mercians clash 
their arms and raise a great shout .- the 
Britons are driven off the stage; ichilst 
many of the dying Mercians clap their hands 
and raise a feeble shout after their comrades. 
The scene closes.) 

Scene III. — an open space before a 
royal tent ; the curtains op 
which are tucked up, and shew a 

COMPANY OF warriors AND DAMES 
WITHIN IT. ON EITHER SIDE OF THE 
OPEN STARE SOLDIERS ARE DRAWN 
UP IN ORDER. 

Enter two petty Thanes on the front of the 
stage. 

1st Thane. Here let us stand and see the 
ceremony. 
Without the tent, 'tis said the king will crown 
The gallant Ethling with a wreatli of honour, 
As the chief agent in this victory 
O'er stern Carwallen and his Britons gain'd. 

2d Thane. Thou sayest well. Within the 
royal tent 
They wait, as I am told, the Ethling's coming, 
Who is full tardy. Soflly, they come fortii. 



ETHWALDi A TRAGEDY. 



155 



* How like a ship, with all her goodly sails 
Spread to the sun, the haughty princess 
moves ! {Jl flourish of trumpets. 

Enter from the tent the KiNG,with Ethelbert, 
Edrick, Thanes and Attendants 5 and 
Elburga, with DwiNA and Ladies. They 
advance towards the front of the stage. 

King. Nay, sweet Elburga, clear thy frown- 
ing brow ; 
He who is absent will not long delay 
His pleasing duty here. 

Elb. On such a day, my Lord, the brave 1 
honour. 
As those who have your royal arms maintain'd 
In war's iron field, such honour meriting. 
What individual chiefs, or here or absent, 
Are therein lapt, by me unheeded is ; 
I deign not to regard it. 
King. Thou art offended, daughter, but 
unwisely. 
Plumed with the fairest honours of the field, 
Such pious grief for a brave father's death. 
Bespeaks a lieart such as a gentle maid 
In her faith-plighted Lord should joy to find. 
Elb. Who best the royal honours of a prince 
Maintains, best suits a royal maiden's love. 
King. Elburga, thou forget'st that gentleness 
Which suits thy gentle kind. 

Eib. (with much assum'dstateliness.) I hope, 
my Lord, 
I do meantime that dignity remember. 
Which doth beseem the daughter of a king ! 
King. Fie ! clear thy cloudy brow ! it is my 
will 
Thou honour graciously his modest worth. 
(Elb. bo7os, but smiles disdainfully.) 
By a well feigned flight, he was the first 
Who broke the stubborn foe, op'ning the road 
To victory. Here, with some public mark 
Of royal favour, by thy hand received, 
I will to honour him ; for, since the battle, 
A gloomy melancholy o'er him broods, 
E'en far exceeding what a father's death 
Should cast upon a youthful victor's triumph. 
Ah ; here he comes ! look on that joyless face ! 
Elb. (aside to Dwina, looking scornfully to 
Edward, as he approaches.) 
Look, with what slow and piteous gait he 

comes ! 
Like younger brother of a petty Thane, 
Timing his footsteps to his father's dirge. 
Dwina. (aside.) Nay, to my fancy seems it 

wond'rous graceful. 
Elb. (contemptuously.) A youth, indeed, 
who might with humble grace 
Beneath thy window tell his piteous tale. 

Enter Edward, followed by Ethw; and At- 
tendants. 

King. Approach, my son : so will I call 
thee now. 



* Probably I have received this idea from 
Samson Agonistes, where Dalila is compared to 
a stately ship of Tarsus " with all her bravery on, I 
and tackle trim," &c. I 



Here is a face whose smiles should gild thy 

honours. 
If thou art yet awake to beauty's power. 

Edw. (kissing Elburga's hand respectfully.) 
Honour'd I am, indeed ; most dearly honour'd 
I feel it here, (his hand on his heart) and should 

be joyful too. 
If aught could gild my gloom. 
(sighs very deeply, then suddenly recollecting 

himself ) 
Elburga, thou wert ever fond of glory, 
And ever quick to honour valiant worth : 
Ethwald,my friend — hast thou forgotten Eth- 
wald ? 

(presenting Ethw. to her.) 
Elb. Could I forget the warlike Thane of 
Mairnieth, 
I must have barr'd mine ears against all sound; 
For ev'ry voice is powerful in his praise, 
Andev'ry Mercian tongue repeats his name. 
(smiling graciously upon Ethw.) 
King, (impatiently.) Where go we now .' 
we wander from our purpose. 
Edward, thy youthful ardour, season'd well 
V/ith warlike craft, has crown'd my age with 

glory : 
Here be thy valour crown'd, it is my will, 
With honour's wreath, from a fair hand re- 
ceiv'd. 

(giving the icreath to Elburga.) 
Edw. (earnestly.) I do beseech you, uncle ! 
pray receive 
My grateful thanks ! the mournful cypress 

best 
Becomes my brow : this honour must not be. 
King. Nay, lay aside unseemly diffidence ; 
It must be so. 

Edw. (impressively.) My heart is much de- 
press'd : 

do not add 

The burden of an undeserved honour, 

To bend me to the earth ! 

King, these warlike chieftains say it is de- 
serv'd, 

And nobly earn'd. It is with their concur- 
rence, 

That now I offer thee this warrior's wreath : 

Yes, Ethling, and command thee to receive it. 

(Holding up his hand.) There, let the trumpet 
sound. (trumpets sound.) 

Edw. (holding up his hands distractedly.) 

Peace, peace ! nor put me to this agony ! 
(trumpets cease.) 

And am I then push'd to this very point ? 

Well, then, away deceit I too long hast thou, 

Like the incumbent monster of a dream 

On the stretch'd sleeper's breast, depress'd 
my soul : 

1 shake thee off, foul mate ! O royal sire, 
And you, ye valiant Mercians, hear the truth ! 
Ye have believ'd, that by a feigned flight, 

I gained the first advantage o'er the foe. 
And broke their battle's strength : O, would 

I had ! 
That flight, alas ! was real : the sudden im- 

pulse 
Of a weak mind, unprov'd and strongly s<i-uck 



156 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



With new and horrid things, until that hour 

Unknown and unimagin'd. 

Nor was it honour's voice that called jne 

back : 
The call of nature saved me. Noble Sea- 

gurth I 
Had I been son of any sire but thee, 
I had in dark and endless shame been lost, 
Nor e'er again before these valiant men 
Stood in this royal presence. 
In all my fortune, blest I am alone, 
That my brave father, rescued by these arms, 
Look'd on me, smiling thro' the shades of 

death. 
And knew his son. He was a noble man ! 
He never turn'd from danger — but his son — 
{Many voices at once.) His son is worthy of 

him ! 
(Repeated again with more voices.) His son is 
worthy of him ! 

Eth. {loitk enthusiasm.) His son is wor- 
thy of the noblest sire that ever 
wielded sword ! 
(Voices.) Crown him, fair princess ! Crown 

tiie noble Edward ! 
("Elburga offers him the wreath, which he puts 
aside Tchemently.) 

Edio. Forbear ! a band of scorpions round 
my brow 
"Would not torment me like this laurel wreath. 
(Elb. turns from him contemptuously, and 
gives the loreuth to the King.) 
Edw. (to King.) What, good my Lord ! is 
there not present here 
A Mercian brow deserving of that wreath ? 
Shall he, who did with an uncover'd head 
Your battle fight, still wear his brows un- 
bound .'■ 
Do us not this disgrace ! 
King, (fretfully.) Thou dost forget the roy- 
al dignity : 
Take it away. (giving it to an Officer.) 

(Jl confused murmuring amongst the soldiers.) 
(Jisidc to the Seneschal, a/rtr??i,ec^.)Wliat noise 
is that .' 
Sen. (aside to King. J Your troops, my sire, 
are much dissatisfied. 
For that their fav'rite chief by )'ou is deem'd 
Unworthy of the wreath. 

King, (aside. ) What, is it so ? call back 
mine ofl'icer. (taking the icreath again, 
and giving it to Elb.) 
This wreath was meant for one of royal line. 
But ev'ry noble Mercian, great in arms, 
Is equal to a prince. 
Crown tiie most valiant Ethwald. 
Elh. (croicning Ethw. with great assumed 
majesty.) 
Long may thy laurels flourish on thy brow, 
Most noble chief! 

(Ethw. takes the wreath and presses it to his 
lips, bowing to Elb. then to the K\ng.) 
Ethto. They, who beneath the royal banner 
fight, 
Unto the fortunes of their royal chief 
Their success owe. Honour'd indeed, am I, 
That the brave Ethling hath so favour'd me, 



And that I may, most humbly at your feet, 
My royal sire, this martial garland lay. 
(He, kneeling, lays the wreath at the King's 
feet; the King raises him up and embraces 
him; the Soldiers clash their arms and call 
out.) 

Sold. Long live the King ! and long live 

noble Ethwald ! 

This is several times repeated. Exeunt King, 

Edward, Elburga, i^c. ^c. Elburga looking 

graciously to Ethwald as she goes off. Ma- 

ment Ethwald and Ethelbert.) 

Eth. (^repeating indignantly as they go off^.) 

Long live the King, and long live noble 

Ethwald! 
Fie on the stupid clowns, that did not join 
The gen'rousEdward's name ! (to Eth. ichois 
standing looking earnestly after the Princess.) 
What dost thou gaze on '? 

Ethw. The princess look'd behind her as 

she went. 
Eth. And what is that to thee .' 
( walks silently across the stage once or twice, 
gloomy and dissatisfied, then turning short 
upon Ethw.) 
When wert thou last to see the lovely Bertlm. 
Ethio. (hesitating.) I cannot reckon it unto 
the day — 
Some moons ago. 

Eth. Some moons ! the moon in her wide 
course, shines not 
Upon a maid more lovely. 
Ethic. I know it well. 
Eth. Thou dost. 

Ethw. (after a pause looking attentively to 
Eth. icho stands muttering to himself.) 
Methinks thou boldest converse with thyself. 
Eth. (speaking aloud, as if he continued to 
talk to himself.) 
She steps upon the flowery bosom'd earth, 
As tho' it were a foot-cloth, fitly spread 
Beneath the tread of her majestic toe ; 
And looks upon the human countenance, 
Whereon her Maker hath the signs impress'd 
Of all that he within the soul hath stored 
Of great and noble, generous and benign, 
As on a molten plate, made to reflect 
Her grandeur and perfections. 
Ethw. Of whom speak'st thou .-' 
Eth. Not of the gentle Bertha. [Exit. 

Ethw. What may he mean? He mark'd, 
with much displeasure. 
The soldiers shout my name, and now my 

favour 
With Mercia's princess frets him. What of 

this ? 
Ha ! hath his active mind outrun mine own 
In shaping future consequences? Yes, 
It nuist be so ; a cloudy curtain draws, 
And to mine eye a goodly prospect shews, 

Extending No, I must not look upon it. 

[Exit hastily^ 

Scene IV. — an open sp.\ce with arms, 

GARMENTS, AND OTHER SPOILS OT 
THE BRITONS HEAPED UP ON EVER'S' 
SIDE OF THE STAGE. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



157 



Enter Soldiers and range themselves in order, 
then enter Ethelbert and a Soldier, talking as 
they enter. 

Eth. Ethwald, amongst his soldiers, dost 
thou say, 
.Divides his spoil ? 

Sol. He does, most bountifully; 
Nor to himself more than a^soldier's share 
Retains, he is so gen'rous and so noble. 
Eth. I thank thee, friend. {^oXAiex retires.) 
(Eth. after a pause.) 
I like not this : behind those heaps I'll stand. 
And mark the manner of this distribution. 
(retires.) 

Enter Alwy and a petty Thane. 

Alwy. Brave wrarriours ! ye are come at his 
desire, 
Who, for each humble soldier, bold in arms, 
That has beneath his orders fought, still 

bears 
A brother's heart. You see these goodly 

spoils : 
He gives them not unto the cloister'd priests: 
His soldiers pray for him. (Soldiers shout.) 
Tlianc. (to Alwy.) What is thy meaning.' 
Alimj. Know'st thou not the king has now 
bestow'd 
The chiefest portion of his British spoil 
On Alban's abbey .-" 

Enter Ethwald. 

{Soldiers shouting very loud.) Long live 

brave 
Ethwald I health to noble Ethwald ! 

Ethw. Thanks for these kindly greetings, 

valiant hearts ! 

(Soldiers shout again very loud.) 
In truth, I stand before you brave companions, 
Somewhat asham'd; for with my wishes 

match'd, 
These hands are poor and empty, (loud ac- 
clamations.) 
I thank you all again ; for well I see 
You have respect unto the dear good will 
That must enrich these heaps of homely stuff. 
Soldiers. Long live our gen'rous leader ! 
Ethw. (giving a Soldier a helmet filled icith 

lots.) 
Here, take the lots, and deal them fairly round. 
Heaven send to all of you, my valiant friends, 
A portion to your liking. This rough heap 
(yointing to the arms.) 
Will give at least to each some warlike trophy, 
Which henceforth, hung upon his humble 

walls. 
Shall tell his sons and grandsons yet to come 
In what proud fields, and with what gallant 

males. 
Their father fought. And, me thinks, well 

pleas'd. 
Resting, as heretofore I oft have done, 
My wand'ring steps beneath your friendly 

roofs, 
Shall, looking up, the friendly token spy, 
^nd in my host a fellow soldier hail. 



Soldiers, (icith loud acclamations.) 
God bless you, noble chief! unto the death 
We'll hold to you, brave leader ! 

Ethw. And, if to you I hold not, valiant 
Mercians, 
No noble chief am I. 

This motley geer, (pointing to the spoils.) 
Would it were all composed of precious 

things ! 
That to his gentle wife or favour'd maid, 
Each soldier might have borne some goodly 

gift; 
But tell them, British matrons cross the woof 
With coarser hands than theirs. 

1st Sol. Saint Alban bless his noble counte- 
nance ! 
'Twas fashion'd for bestowing. 
2d Sol. Heav'n store his halls with wealth ! 
Ethic, (going familiarly amongst the sol- 
diers as the lots are draicing.) 
Well, Ogar, hast thou drawn ? good luck to 

thee. 
And thou, good Baldwin too ? Yet, fie upon it ! 
The heaviest weapon of the British host 
Lacks weight of metal for thy sinewy arm. — 
Ha ! health to thee, mine old and honest host ! 
I'm glad to see thee with thine arm unbound. 
And, ruddy too ! thy dame should give me 

thanks : 
I send thee home to her a younger man 
Than I receiv'd thee, (to the Soldier with the 

lots who is passing him.) 
Nay, stay thee, friend, I pray, nor pass me o'er. 
We all must share alike : hold out thy cap. 

(smiling as he draws.) 
The knave would leave me out. 
(Loud acclamations, the Soldiers surrounding 
him and clashing their arms.) 

Enter Selrkd and Followers. 

Scl. (to Sol.) Ha! whence comes all this 

uproar .'' 
Sol. Know you not .' 
Your noble brother 'midst his soldiers shares 
His British spoils. 

Sel. The grateful knaves ! is all their joy 
for this .' 

(to his Followers.) 
Well, go and add to it my portion also ; 
'Twill make them roar the louder. Do it 
quickly. [Exit. 

Soldiers (looking after Sel.) Heaven bless 
him too, plain, honest, careless soul ! 
He gives as tho' he gave not. (loud acclama- 
tions. 
Long live brave Ethwald, and the noble Selred. 
Ethw. (aside to Alwy displeased.) How 

came he here .'' 
Jllwy. I cannot tell. 

Ethw. (to Sol.) We are confined within 
this narrow space : 
Go range yourselves at large on yon green 

sward. 
And there we'll spread the lots. 
(Exeunt tlic Soldiers, arranging themselves 
as theij go.) 



158 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Scene, V — an apartment in a 

ROYAL CASTLE. 

Enter Ethelbert, and leans his back upon a 
pillar near the front of the stage, as if deeply 
engaged in gloomy thoughts : afterwards, enters 
Ethwald jjy the opposite side, at the bottom 
of the stage, and approaches Eth. slowly, ob- 
serving hun attentively as he advances. 

Ethic. Thou art disturbed, Ethelbert. 

Eth. I am. 

Ethw. Thine eyes roll strangely, as tho' 
thou beheld'st 

Some dreadful thing : 

On what look 'st thou .' 

Eth. Upon my country's ruin. 

The land is full of blood : her savage birds 
O'er human carcasses do scream and batten : 
The silent hamlet smokes not; in the field 
The aged grandsire turns the jo)'less soil : 
Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth 
Within the narrow house of death is laid, 
An early tenant. 

Ethw. Thou'rt beside thyself! 

Think'st thou that I, with these good arms, 

will stand 
And suffer all this wreck ? 

Eth. Ha ! say'st thou so ? Alas, it is thyself 

Who rul'st the tempest ! (shaking his head 
solemnly.) 

Ethw. If that 1 bear the spirit of a man, 
Thou falsely see'st ! Think'st thou I am a 

beast; 
A fanged wolf, reft of all kindly sense, 
That I sliould do such deeds .' 
1 am a man aspiring to be great, 
But loathing cruelty : who wears a sword 
That will protect and not destroy the feeble. 
(putting his hand vehemently upon his sword.) 

Eth. Ha ! art thou roused I blessings on thy 
wrath ! 
I'll trust thee still. But see, the Ethling 

comes. 
And on Lis face he wears a smile of joy. 

Enter Edward, advancing gaily to Ethwald i 
Ed. A boon, a boon, great Mairnieth's 

Thane I crave. 
Eth. You come not with a suppliant's face, 

my Lord. 
Ed. Not much cast down, for lack of confi- 
dence, 
My suit to gain. That envious braggard there. 
The chief of Bournoth, says, no Mercian arm, 
Of man now living, can his grandsire's sword 
In warlike combat wield: and, in good sooth ! 
I forfeit forty of my fattest kine 
If Ethwald's arm does not the feat achieve. 
(to Ethw.) What say'st thou, friend .' Me- 

thinks thou'rt grave and silent : 
Hast thou so soon tliy noble trade; forgot .' 
Have at it then ! I'll rouse thy spirit up : 
I'll soldier thee again, (drawing his sword 
playfully upon Ethwald, loho defends 
himself in like manner. 
Fie on't ! that was a wicked northern push : 
It smells of thine old sports in Mollo's walls. 
(pauses and fights again.) 



To it again ! How listless thou art grown ! 
Where is thy manhood gone .'' 
Ethw. Fear not, my Lord, enough remains 
behind 
To win your forty kine. 

Ed. I'll take thy word for't now : in faith, 
I'm tired! 
I've been too eager in the morning's chace. 
To fight your noonday battles, (putting the 
point of his sword to the ground, and 
leaning famfiiliarly upon Ethwald.) 
' My arm, I fear, would make but little gain 
With Bournoth's sword. By arms and brave 

men's love ! 
1 could not brook to see that wordy braggard 
Perching his paltry sire above thy pitch : 
It rais'd my fiend within. When I am great, 
I'll build a tower upon the very spot 
Where thou did'st first the British army stay^ 
And shame the grandsires of those mighty 

Thanes 
Six ages deep. Lean I too hard upon thee .' 
Ethw. No, notliing hard : most pleasant 
and most kindly. 
Take your full rest, my Lord. 

Ed. In truth, I do: methinks it does me 
good 
To rest upon thy brave and valiant breast. 
Eth. stepping before them with great anima- 
tion.) 
Well said, most noble Edward ! 
The bosom of the brave is that on which 
Rests many a head ; but most of all, I trow, 
Th' exposed head of princely youth thereon 
Rests gracefully, (steps hack some paces and 
looks at them ivith delight.) 
Ed. You look upon us, Thane, with eager 
eyes. 
And looks of meaning. 

Eth. Pardon me, I pray ! 
My fancy, oftentimes, will wildly play. 
And strong conceits possess me. 
Indulge my passing freak : I am a man 
Upon whose grizzled head the work of time 
Hath been by care performed, and, with the 

young, 
Claiming the priv'lege of a man in years. 
(taking the hands o/Ed. and Eth. and joining 

them together.) 
This is a lovely sight ! indulge my fancy ; 
And on this sword, it is a brave man's sword, 
Swear tliat you will unto each other prove. 
As prince and subject, true. 
Ed. No, no, good Thane ! 
As friends, true friends ! that doth the whole 

include. 
I kiss the honor'd blade, (kissing the sword 
held out by Eth.) 
Eth. (presenting the sword to Ethw.^ And 

what says noble Ethwald ? 
Ethw. All that the brave should say. (kiss- 
ing it also.) 
Eth . (triumphantly.) Now, Mercia, thou art 
strong ! give me your hands; 
Faith, I must lay them both upon my breast ! 
(pressing both their hands to his breast.) 
This is a lovely sight I 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



159 



Ethw. {softened.) You weep, good Ethel- 
be rt. 
Eth. brushing off his tears with his hand.) 

Yes, yes ! such tears as doth the warm 
shower'd earth 

Shew to the kindly sun. 

- Ed. (to Ethw. gently clapping his shoulder.) 

I love this well ; thou like a woman weep'st, 

And lightest like a man. But look, I pray ! 

There comes my arm's-man with the brag- 
gard's sword ; 

Let us assay it yonder. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — an apartment in a royal 

CASTLE. 

Ethwald is discovered sitting in deep meditation 
by the side of a couch, with a lamp burning by 

i him on a high stand : the rest of the stage en- 
tirely dark. 

Ethw. Why am I haunted with these 
thoughts ? What boots it, 
That from their weak and priest-beridden king 
The soldiers turn distasteful, and on me 
In mutter'd wishes call ? What boots all this ? 
Occasion fairly smiles, but I am shackled. 
Elsewhere I needs must turn my climbing 

thoughts; 
But where ? Tlie youthful see around them 

spread 
A boundless field of undetermin'd things, 
Towering in tempting greatness : 
But, to the closer scan of men matured, 
These fade away, and in the actual state 
Of times and circumstances, each perceives 
A path which doth to his advancement lead, 
And only one ; as to the dazzled eye 
Of the night rev'ller, o'er his emptied bowl. 
The multiplied and many whirling lights 
Do shrink at last into one single torch, 
Shedding a steady ray. I see my path ; 
But what is that to me ? my steps are chain'd. 
Amongst the mighty great, the earth's high 

lords. 
There is no place for me ! I must lie down 
In the dark tomb with those, whose passing 

brightness 
Sliines for a while, but leaves no ray behind. 
(throws himself half upon the couch, and groans 
heavily.) 

Enter Boy. 
Boy. My Lord, my Lord ! (Ethw. lifts up 
his head, and looks sternly at him.) 
Are you unwell, my Lord ? 
Ethw. What dost thou want .' 
Boy. I could not sleep; and as I list'ning lay 
To the drear wind that whistles tliro' these 

towers, 
Methought I heard you groan like one in pain. 
Ethw. Away, and go to sleep : I want thee 
not : 
I say, begone, (sternly.) [Exit Boy. 

(he pauses a ichile, then sighs very deeply.) 
He hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp 



On the wreck'd swimmer's neck — his boyish 

love 
Was not my seeking ; it was fasten'd on me, 
And now it hath become an iron band 
To fetter down my powers. O that I were 
Amidst the warlike and ungentle cast 
To strive uncumber'd ! What have I to do 
With soft affection .' (soften'd.) Yet it needs 

must be ! 
His gen'rous love : his brave ungrudging love: 
His manly gentle love — O that he had 
Mine equal friend been born, who in my rise 
Had fair advancement found, and by my side 
The next in honour stood ! 
He drags me to the earth ! I needs must lay 
My head i' the dust. — Dull hopeless privacy! 
From it my soul recoils : unto my nature 
It is the death of death, horrid and hateful. 
(Starting up eagerly.) No, in the tossed bark, 
Commander of a rude tumultuous crew. 
On the wild ocean would I rather live : 
Or, in the mined caverns of the earth 
Untamed bands of lawless men controul, 
By crime and dire necessity enleagued : 
Yea, in the dread turmoil of midnight storms, 
If such there be, lead on the sable hosts 
Of restless sprites, than say to mortal man 
" Thou art my master." 

Enter Boy. 
What, here again ? 

Boy. O pardon me, my Lord ! 1 am in fear ; 
Strange sounds do howl and hurtle round my 

bed ; 
I cannot rest. 

Ethw. Be gone, thou wakeful pest ! I say, 

begone ! [Exit Boy. 

(Ethic, walks several times across the stage and 

then pauses.) 
Yet in my mind one ever present thought 
Rises omnipotent o'er all the rest. 
And says, " thou shalt be great." 
What may this mean .'' before me is no way. 
What deep endued seer will draw this veil 
Of dark futurity .'' Of such I've heard. 
But when the troubled seek for them, they are 
not. 

Re-e)iter Boy. 
(stamping with his foot.) What ! here a tliird 
time .'' 
Boy. (falling at his feet.) O, my noble 
master ! 
If you should slay me, I must come to you ; 
For in my chamber fearful things there be. 
That sound i' the dark ; O do not chide me 
back ! 
Ethw. Strange sound within thy chamber, 

foolish wight I 
Boy. (starting.) Good mercy, list ! ^ 
Ethw. It is some night-bird screaming on 

the tower. 
Boy. Ay, so belike it seemeth,but I know — 
Ethw. What dost thou know .' 
Boy. It is no bird, my Lord. 
Ethw. What would'st thou say .-■ 
Boy. (clasping his hands together, and star- 
ing earnestly in Ethw's face.) 



160 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



At dond orniglit, from the dark Druid's cave 
Up rise iinhallow'd sprites, and o'er the earth, 
Hold for the term tlieir wicked rule. Aloft, 
Some mounted on the heavy sailing cloud, 
Oft pour down noisome streams or biting hail 
On the benig-hted hind, and from his home. 
With wayward eddying blasts, still beat him 

back. 
Some on the waters shriek like drowning men. 
And, when the pitying passenger springs 

forth 
To lend his aid, the dark flood swallows him. 
Some, on lone marshes shine like moving 

lights ; 
And some on towers and castle turrets perch'd. 
Do scream like nightly birds, to scare the 

good. 
Or rouse the murd'rer to his bloody work. 
Ethic. The Druid's cave, say 'st thou .'' What 

cave is that .-' 
Where is it ^ Who hath seen it .' What scar'd 

fool 
Hath fiU'd tliine ears with all these horrid 

things .' 
Boy. It is a cavern vast and terrible. 
Under the ground full deep : perhaps, my 

Lord, 
Beneath our very feet, here as we stand ; 
For few do know the spot and centre of it, 
Tho' many mouths it has and entries dark. 
Some are like hollow pits bor'd thro' the earth, 
O'er which, the list'ning herdsman bends his 

ear. 
And hears afar their lakes of molten fire 
Sweit'ring and boiling like a mighty pot. 
Some like straight passes thro' the rifled 

rocks, 
From which ofl issue shrieks, and wliistling 

gusts, 
And wailings dismal. Nay, some, as they say, 
Deep hollow'd underneath the river's bed, 
Which shew their narrow op'nings thro' the 

fern 
And tangling briers, like dank and noisome 

holes 
Wherein foul adders breed. But not far hence 
The chiefest mouth of all, 'midst beetling rocks 
And groves of blasted oaks, gapes terrible. 
Etiuo. So near ^ But who are they who 

dwell within .'' 
Boy. The female high arch Druid therein 

holds,* 
With many Druids tending on her will, 



* It is natural to suppose that the Diviners or 
Fortune-tellers of this period should, in their su- 
perstitions and pretensions, very mucli resemble 
the ancient Druidesses who were so much re- 
vered amongst the Britons as oracles and proph- 
etesses, and that they should, amongst the vulgar, 
still retain the name of their great predecessors. 
In Henry's History of Britain, vol. i. p. 181, it 
will be found that the superstitious practices of 
the Druids continued long after their religion 
was abolished, and resisted for a long time the 
light of Christianity; and that even so late as the 
reign of Canute, it was necessary to make laws 
against it. 



(Old, as they say, some hundred years or 

more) 
Her court, where horrid spells bind to her rule 
Spirits of earth and air. 

Ethw. Ay, so they tell thee ; 
But who is he tliat has held converse with her.' 
Boy. Crannock, the bloody prince, did visit 
her, 
And she did shew to him the bloody end 
Whereto he soon should come ; lor all she 

knows 
That is, or has been, or shall come to pass. 
Ethio. Yes, in times past such intercourse 
might be. 
But who has seen them now .'' 
Boy. Thane Ethelbert. 
Ethw. (starting.) What, said'st thou Ethel- 
bert? 
Boy. Yes, truly; ofl he goes to visit them 
What time the moon rides in her middle 
course. 
Ethw. Art thou assured of this .'' 
Boy. A youth, who saw him issue frorti the 
cave, 
'Twas him who told it me. 

Ethw. Mysterious man ! 
(after a pause.) Where sleeps the Thane .'' 

Boy. If walls and doors may hold him. 
He sleeps, not distant, in the Southern Tower. 
Ethw. Take thou that lamp, and go before 

me, then. 
Boy. Where .' 
Ethw. To the Southern .Tower. Art thou 

afraid .-' 
Boy. No, my good Lord, but keep you close 
behind. 
[Exeunt Boy, hearing the lamp, and looking 
often behind to see that Ethw. is near him. 

Scene II. — a small gallery or pas- 
sage WITH A DOOR IN FRONT, WHICH 

IS open'd, and 
Enter Ethwald and Ethelbert with a lamp 
in his hand. 

Eth. Then, by the morrow's midnight moon 
we meet 
At the arch Sister's cave : till then, farewell ! 

Ethw. Farewell ! I will be punctual. [Exit. 

Eth. (looking after him for some time before 
he speaks.) 
It ever is the mark'd propensity 
Of restless and aspiring minds to look 
Into the stretch of dark futurity. 
But be it so : it now may turn to good. 
[Exit, returning hack again into the same 

chamber from lohich he came.) 

Scene III. — a wide arched cave, 
rude but grand, seen by a sombre 
light; a small furnace burning 
near the front of the stage. 

Enter Ethwald and Ethelbert, who pause 
and look round for some time without speak- 
ing. 

Ethw. Gloomy, and void, and silent ! 
Eth. Hush! 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



161 



Ethw. What hearest thou ? 
Eth. Their hollow sounding steps. Lo ! 
see'st thou not ? 

Pointing to the further end of the stage, where 
from an obscure recess enter three Mystics 
robed in white, and, ranged on one side of the 
stage, point to Ethwald: whilst from another 
obscure recess, enter three Mvstic Sisters, 
and, ranged on the opposite side, point to Eth. 
then from a mid recess enters the Arch Sis- 
ter, robed also in white, but more majestick 
than the others, and a train of Mystics and 
Mystic Sisters behind her. She advances 
half way up the stage, then stops short, and 
points also to Ethwald. 

(Ml the Mystics, S^c. speaking at once.) 
Who art thou .? 
Arch Sist. I know thee who thou art ; the 
hand of Mercia : 
The hand that lifts itself above the head. 
I know thee who thou art. 

Ethw. Then haply ye do know my en"and 

too. 
Arch Sist. I do ; but turn thee back upon 
thy steps, 
And tempt thy fate no farther. 
Ethw. From the chaf d shore turn back the 
swelling tide ! 
I came to know my fate, and I will know it. 
1st Mystic. Must we call up from the deep 
centre's womb 
The spirits of the night and their dread Lord .' 
1st Myst. 8. Must we do that which makes 
the entombed dead 
From coffins start .•■ 

Ethw. Raise the whole host of darkness an' 
ye will, 
But I must be obey'd. 

{The Arch Sister shi-ieks, and, throwing her 
mantle over her face, turns to go awaif.) 
Ethw. If there is power in mortal arm to 
hold you, 
Ye stir not hence until I am obey'd. 
1st Myst. And how compell'st thou.' 
Ethw. With this good sword. 
1st Myst. Swords here are children's wands, 
of no avail : 
There, warriour, is thy weapon. 
Ethio. Where, Mystic .' say. 
1st Mystic, (pointing to the furnace.') Behold 
within that fire 
A bar of burning iron ! pluck it forth. 

Ethw. {resolutely.) I will. 
{goes to the furnace, and putting in his hand 
pulls out what seems a red hot bar of iron.) 
Arch Sist. {throioing off her mantle^ 
Thou hast subdued me ; thou shalt be obey'd. 

Ethic, {casting away the liar.) 
Away, thou paltry terrour ! 
Arch Sist. {to Ethw.) We now begin our 
rites : be firm, be silent. 
She stretches forth her hand with a command- 
ing air, and the Mystics and Mystic 'Sis- 
ters begin their incantations at the bottom 
of the stage, moving round in several mazy 
circles one within another. Fire is at last 
seen flashing from the midst of the inner cir- 

20 



cle, and immediately they all begin a hollow 
muttering sound, which becomes louder and 
louder, till at length it is accompanied with 
dismal sounds from without, and distant musick, 
solemn and wild. 

Ethw. {grasping Ethelbert's hand.) What 
dismal sounds are these ? 

'Tis like a wild responsive harmony, 

Tun'd to the answ 'ring yells of damned souls. 

What follows this ? Some horrid tiling ! Thou 
smil'st : 

Nay, press thy hand, I pray thee, on my breast ; 

There vidlt thou find no fear. 

Eth. Hush ! hear tliat distant noise. 
Ethw. 'Tis thunder in the bowels of the 
earth, 

Heard from afar. 

A subterraneous noise like thunder is heard at a 
distance, becoming louder as it approaches. 
Upon hearing this, the Mystics suddenly leave 
off their rites : the music ceases, and they, 
opening their circles, range themselves on ei- 
ther side of the stage, leaving the Arch Sis- 
ter alone in the middle. 

Arch Sist. {holding up her hand.) Mystics 
and Mystic Maids, and leagued bands ! 

The master spirit comes : prepare. 

{All repeat after her.) Prepare. 
1st Mystic. Hark ! thro' the darken d realms 
below. 

Thro' the fiery region's glow ; 

Thro' the massy mountain's core, 

Thro' the mines of living ore ; 

Thro' the yawning caverns wide, 

Thro' the solid and the void ; 

Thro' the dank and thro' the dry. 

Thro' th' unseen of mortal eye ; 

Upon the earthquake's secret course, afar 

I hear the sounding of thy car : 

Sulphureous vapours load the rising gale ; 

We know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 

( They all repeat.) Mighty master, hail I 

( The stage darkens by degrees, and a thick va- 
pour begins to ascend at the bottom of the 
stage.) 

2d Mystic. Hark, hark ! what murmurs fill 
the dome ! 

Who are they who witli thee come ? 

Those who, in their upward flight, 

Rouse the tempests of the njglit: 

Those who ride in flood and fire ; 

Those who rock the tumbling spire : 

Those who, on the bloody plain. 

Shriek with the voices of the slain : 

Those who thro' the darkness glare, 

And the sleepless murd'rer scare : 

Those who take their surly rest 

On the troubled dreamer's breast : 

Those who make their nightly den 

In the guilty haunts of men. 

Thro' the heavy air I hear 

Their hollow trooping onward bear : 

The torches' shrinking flame is dim and pale ; 

I know thy coming ; mighty master, hail ! 
{All repeat again.) Mighty master, hail ! 

{The stage becomes still darker, and a thicker 
vapour ascends.) 



162 



ETHWALD.A TRAGEDY. 



3d Mystic. Lo ! the mystic volumes rise ! 
Wherein are lapt from mortal eyes 
Horrid deeds as yet unthought, 
Bloody battles yet unfought : 
The sudden fall and deadly wound 
Of the tyrant yet uncrown'dj 
And his line of many dyes 
Who yet within the cradle lies. 
Moving forms, whose stilly bed 
Tjong hath been among the dead ; 
Moving forms, whose living morn 
Breaks with the nations yet unborn, 
In mystic vision walk the horrid pale : 
We own thy presence ; mighty master, hail ! 

(Ml.) Mighty master, hail ! ' 

Enter from the farther end of the stage crowds 
of terrible spectres, dimly seen through the 
vapour, which now spreads itself over the 
whole stage. All the Mystics and Mystic 
Sisters bow themselves very low, and the 
Arch Sister, standing alone in the middle, 
bows to all the different sides of the cave. 
Et/iw. (to 1st Mystic.) To every side the 
mystic mistress bows. 

What meaneth this .'' mine eye no form per- 
ceives : 

Where is your mighty chief.'' 
1st Mystic. Above, around you, and benea'th. 
Ethw. Has he no form to vision sensible .'' 
1st Mystic. In the night's noon, in the 
winter's noon, in the lustre's noon ; 

Of times twice ten within the century's round 

Is he before our leagued bands confess'd 

In dread appearance : 

But in what form or in what circumstance 

May not be told ; he dies who utters it. 

'Kthw. shrinks at this; and seems someichat 
appalled. The Arch Sister, after tossing 
about her arms and writhing her body in a 
violent agitation, fixes her eyes, like one 
waked from a dream, stedfastly upon Ethw. 
tJten going suddenly up to him, grasps him by 
the Jiand icitk energy.) 
Jlrch Sist. Thou who would'st pierce the 
deep and awful shade 

Of dark futurity, to know the state 

Of after greatness waiting on thy will, 

For in thy power acceptance or rejection 

Is freely put, lift up thine eyes and say. 

What see'st thou yonder. 

{pointing to a dark arched opening in the roof 
of the cave, where an iUuminatcd croicn and 
sceptre appears.) 

Ethw. (starting.) Ha ! e'en the inward vis- 
ion of my soul 

In actual form pourtray'd ! (his eyes brigkt'- 
ning wonderfully.) 

Say'st thou it shall be mine ? 
Arch Sist. As tliou shalt choose. 
Ethw. I ask of thee no more. 

(stands gazing upon the appearance, till it 
fades away.) 

So soon e.xtinguish'd .' Hath this too a mean- 
ing.? 

It says, perhaps, my greatness shall be short. 
Jlrch Sist. I speak to theo no further than 
I may, 



Therefore be satisfied. 

Ethw. And I am satisfied. Dread mystic 
maid, 

Receive my thanks. 
Arch Sist. Nay, Ethwald, our commission 
ends not here: 

Stay and behold what follows. 

(the stage becomes suddenly dark, and most 
terrible shrieks, and groans, and dismal 
lamentations, arc heard from the farther end 
of the cave.) 

EthiD. What horrid sounds are these .' 
Jlrch Sist. The varied voice of woe, of 
Mercia's woe : 

Of those who shall, beneath thine iron hand, 

The cup of mis'ry drink. There, dost thou 
hear 

The dungeon'd captives' sighs, the shrilly 
shrieks 

Of childless mothers and distracted maids, 

Mix'd with the heavy groans of dying men .-" 

The widow's wiiilings,too; and infant's cries — 
(Ethw. stops his ears in horrour.) 

Ay, stop thine ears ; it is a horrid sound. 
Ethw. Forfend tliat e'er again I hear the 
like ! 

What didst thou say .' O, thou didst foully 
say! 

Do I not know my nature .'' heav'n and earth 

As soon shall change 

(Jl voice above.) Swear not ! 
(Jl voice beneath.) Swear not ! 

(./3 voice on the same level, but distant.) Swear 
not! 
Arch Sist. Now, once again, and our com- 
mission ends. 

Look yonder, and behold that shadowy form. 

(pointing to an arched recess, across which 
hursts a strong light, and discovers a crown- 
ed phantom, covered toith wounds, and repre- 
senting by its gestures one in agony. Ethw. 
looks and shrinks back.) 

What dost thou see ? 
Ethw. A miserable man : his breast is 
pierced 

With many wounds, and yet his gestures seem 

The agony of a distracted mind 

More than of pain. 
Jlrch Sist. But wears he not a crown ? 
Ethw. Why does it look so fix'dly on me 
thus .' 

What are its woes to me ? 
Arch Sist. They are tliy own. 

Know'st thou no traces of that alter'd form, 

Nor see'st that crown'd phantom is thyself ? 
Ethw. (shudders then after a pause.) 

I may be doom'd to meet a tyrant's end 

But not to be a tyrant. 

Did all the powers of hell attest the doom, 

I would belie it. Know I not my nature .'' 

By every dreaded power and hallow'd thing — 
(Voice over the stage.) Swear not ! 
(Voice under the stage.) Swear not ! 
(Distant voice off the stage) Swear not ! 

(A tlimidering noise is heard under ground. 
The stage becomes instantly quite dark, and 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



163 



Mystics and Spirits, ^c. disappear, Ethw. 
and Eth. remaining alone.) 
Eth. (after a pause.) How art thou ? 
Etkw. Is it thy voice .■' O, let me feel thy 
grasp ! 
Mine ears ring strangely, and my head doth 

feel 
As tho' I were bereaved of my wits. 
Are they all gone ? Where is thy hand, I 

pray ? 
We've had a fearful bout ! 
Eth. Thy touch is cold as death : let us 
ascend 
And breathe the upper air.* [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — a forest. 

Enter Ethwald with a bow in his hand, and a boy 
carrying his arrows. 

Ethto. (looking off the stage.) Ha ! Alwy, 
soon return'd, and with him comes 
My faithful Ongar. 

Enter Alwy and Ongar with bows also, as if 
in quest of sport, by the oppo site side. 

Thou comest, Alwy, with a busy face. 

(to Boy.) 

Go, Boy ; I shot mine arrow o'er those elms, 

Thou'lt find it far beyond. [Exit Boy. 

Now, friend, what tidings ? 
Micy. Witliin the tufted centre of the wood 

The friendly chiefs are met, thus, like our- 
selves 

As careless ramblers guised, all to a man 

Fix'd in your cause. Their followers too are 
firm; 

For, much disgusted with the monkish face 

Their feeble monarch wears, a:warlike leader, 

Fjir, far inferior to the noble Ethwald, 

May move them as he lists. 

Ethw. That time and circumstances on me 
call 

Imperiously, I am well assured. 

Good Ongar, what say'st thou ? how thrives 
thy part 

Of this important task .' 

Ong. Weil as your heart could wish. At 
the next council, 

Held in the royal chamber, my good kinsman 

Commands the guard, and will not bar our 
way. 
Ethw. May I depend on this ? 
Ong. You may, my Lord. 
Ethic. Thanks to thee, Ongar ! this is no- 
ble service. 

And shall be nobly thank'd. There is, good 
Alwy, 

* I will not take upon me to say that, if I had 
never read Shakspeare's Macbeth, I should have 
thought of bringing Ethwald into a cavern under 
ground to inquire his destiny, though I believe 
this desire to look into futurity (particularly in a 
superstitious age) is a very constant attendant on 
ambition ; but I hope the reader will not find in 
the above scene any offensive use made of the 
works of that great master; 



Another point ; hast thou unto the chiefs. 
Yet touch'd upon it ? 
Mwy. Yes, and they all agree 'tis most ex- 
pedient 
That with Elburga's hand, since weaker 

minds 
Are blindly wedded to the royal line, 
Your right be strengthen'd. 

Ethio. And this they deem expedient ? 
Mwy. You sigh, my lord; she is, indeed, 

less gentle 

Ethw. Regard it not, it is a passing thought, 
And it will have its sigh, and pass away. 
(turning away for a liltle space, and then com- 
ing foricard again.) 
What means hast thou devised, that for a 

term 
Selred and Ethelbertmay be remov'd .' 
For faithful to the royal line they are, 
And will not swerve : their presence here 

were dang'rous : 
We must employ them in some distant strife. 
Mwy. I have devis'd a plan, but for the 

means 
Brave Ongar here stands pledged. Wog- 

garwolfe. 
Who once before unweetingly has served us, 
Will do the same again. 

Ethio. How so .' 'tis said that since his last 

affray 

With the keen torment of his wounds subdu'd, 

On sick bed laid by the transforming pow'rs 

Of artful monks, he has become most saintly. 

Mwy. Well, but we trust his saintship 

ne'ertheless 
May still be lur'd to do a sinner's work. 
To burn the castle of a hateful heretic 
Will make amends for all lus bloody deeds : 
You catch the plan : Nay, Hexulf and his 

priest 
Will be our help-mates here. Smile not ; 

good Ongar 
Has pledged his word for this. 

Ethw. And I will trust to it. This will, 

indeed. 
Draw off the Thanes in haste. But who is 

near? 
Sculking behind yon thicket stands a man : 
See'st thou .' {pointing off the stage.) 

Mwy. Go to him, Ongar, scan him well. 
And if his face betrays a list'ner's guilt — 
Thou hast thy dagger there .' 
Ong. Yes, trust me well. 
Ethic. Nay, Ongar, be not rash in shedding 

blood ! 
Let not one drop be spilt that may be spar'd. 
Secure him if he wear a list'ner's face : 
We are too strong for stern and ruthless cau- 
tion. [Exit Ongar. 
I'm glad he is withdrawn a little space. 
Ere we proceed to join the leagued chiefs. 
Hast thou agreed with Cuthbert .'' Is he sure ? 
Mwy. Sure. 'Tis agreed when next the 

Ethling hunts, 
To lead him in tlie feigned quest of game 
From his attendants ; there, in ambush laid. 



!64 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Cuthbert and his adherents seize upon him, 
And will conduct him with the ev'ning's 

close 
To Arrick's rugged tower. All is prepar'd. 
Ethw. But hast thou charged him well that 
this be done 
With all becoming care and gentleness, 
That nothing may his noble nature gall 
More than the hard necessity compels ? 
Micy. Do not mistrust us so ! your brow is 
dark : 
At Edward's name your changing counte- 
nance 
Is ever clouded. (Ethw. turns from him ag- 
itated.) 
You are disturb'd, my Lord. 

Ethic. I am disturb'd. {turning round and 
grasping Alwy hj the hand.) 
I'll tell thee, Alwy — yes — I am disturb'd — 
No gleam of glory thro' my prospect breaks, 
But still his image, 'thwart the brightness 

cast. 
Shades it to night. 

Mwy. It will be always so : but wherefore 
should it.'' 
Glory is ever bought by those who earn it 
With loss of many lives most dear and pre- 
cious. 
So is it destin'd. Let that be unto him 
Which in the crowded beach or busy Held 
All meet regardless from a foe-man's hand. 
Doth the still chamber, and the muffled 

tread, 
And th' unseen stroke that doth the infliction 

deal, 
Alter its nature .'' 

Ethw. {pushing Alwy away from him ve- 
hemently, and putting up both his 
hands to his head.) 
Forbear ! forbear ! I shut mine eyes, mine 

ears ; 
All entrance bar that may into my mind 
Th' abhorred thing convey. Have I not said. 
Thou slialt not dare in word, in look, in ges- 
ture, 
In slightest indication of a thought. 
Hold with my mind such base communication? 
By my sword's strength! did I not surely think 
From this bold seizure of the sovereign power, 
A pow'r for which 1 must full dearly pay. 
So says the destiny that o'er me hangs. 
To shield his weakness and restore again 
In room of Mercia's crown a nobler sway. 
Won by my sword, 1 would as lief Nor- 
thumberland 
Invites my arms, and soon will be subdu'd ; 
Of this full sure, a good amends may bo 
To noble Edward made. 

Mwy. {who during the last part of Ethw's 
speech has been smiling behind his 
back malignantly.) 
O yes, full surely : 

And wand'ring harpers shall in hall and bower 
Sing of the marv'llous deed. 

Ethw. {turning short upon him and percciv 
ing his smile.) 
Thou smilest, methinks. 



Full well I read the meaning of that look : 
'Tis a fiend's smile, and it will prove a false 

one. 
{turning away angrily, whilst Alwy walks to 

the bottom of the stage.) 
(Aside, looking suspiciously after him.) Have 

I off"ended liim .' he is an agent 

Most needful to me. {aloud, advancing to him.) 

Good Alwy, anxious minds will often chide — 

{Jlsidc, stopping short.) He hears me not, or is 

it but a feint ? 

Mwy. {looking off the stage.) Your arrow-boy 

returns. 
Ethw. {aside, nodding to himself.) No, 'tis a 
free and unoffended voice ; 
I'm wrong. This is a bird whose fleshed beak 
The prey too strongly scents to fly away : 
I'll spare my courtesies {aloud.) What say'st 
thou, Alwy .'■ 
Micy. (pointing.) Your arrow-boy. 
Ethw. I'm glad he is return'd. 

Re-enter Boy: 
Boy. No where, my Lord, can I the arrow 

find. 
Ethw. Well, boy, it matters not; let us 

move on. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — a narrow gallery in an 

ABBEY OR CLOISTER, WITH SEVERAL 
DOORS OPENING INTO IT, 

Enter Hexulf and Ongar and Two Monks. 

Hex. Fear not, brave Ongar, we, upon thy 
hint. 
Will quickly act ; for here our eager wishes 
Are with the Church's good most closely 
join'd. 
First Monk. This is the time when he should 
walk abroad. 
{listening.) I hear him at his door. 
Hex. Leave us, good Ongar. 
Ong. To your good skill I do commit it then ; 
Having but only you, most rev'rend father. 
To take my part against this wizard Thane. 
First Monk, {still listening.) Begone, he 
issues forth. [Exit Ongar. 

{one of the doors opens slowly, and enters 
Woggarwolfe, wrapped in a cloak and his 
head bound.) 

Hex. Good-morrow, valiant Thane, whose 
pious gifts 
Have won heav'n's grace to renovate thy 

strength. 
And grant thee longer life, how goes thy health.' 
Wog. I thank you, rev'rend father, greatly 

mended. 
First Monk. The prayers of holy men have 
power to save, 
E'en on the very borders of the tomb. 
The humbled soul who doth with gifts enrich 
The holy churcli. 

Second Monk. Didst thou not feel within 
thee 
A peaceful calm, a cheering confidence. 
Soon as thy pious offering was accepted ? 
Wog. {hesitating.) Yes, rev'rend fathers, — 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



165 



I have thought indeed — 
Perhaps yoa meant it so — that since that time 
The devil lias not scar'd me in my dreams 
So oft as he was wont, when sore with wounds 
I first was laid upon my bed of pain. 
Hex. Ay, that is much} but, noble Wog- 
garwolfe, 
Thinkest thou not the church doth merit well 
Some stable gift, some fix'd inheritance ? 
Thou hast those lands that are so nearly join'd 
Unto St. Alban's abbey. 

Wog. (much surprised.) My lands ! give up 

my lands .•' 
First Monk. What are thy lands 
Compar'd to that which they will purchase 
for thee 1 
Sec. Monk. To lay thy coffin'd body in the 
ground, 
Rob'd in the garb of holy men, and bless'd.' 
Fiist Monk. To have thy tomb beneath the 
shading arch 
Of sacred roof, where nought profane may 

enter ; 
Whilst midnight spirits stand and yell without. 
But o'er the sacred threshold dare not trespass. 

Wog. (with a rueful countenance.) 
What, do you think I shall be dead so soon ? 
Hex. Life is uncertain ; but how glorious, 
Thane, 
To look beyond this wicked world of strife, 
And for thyself a lofty seat provide 
With saints and holy men, and angel bands! 
iVog. Nay, father, I am not so highly bent; 
Do but secure me from the horrid fangs 
Of the terrific fiend : I am not proud ; 
That will suffice me. 

Hex. Nay, herein thy humility we praise 
not, 
And much I fear, at such a humble pitch, 
He who so lately scar'd thee in thy dreams 
May reach thee still. 

First Monk. O think of this ! 
Hex. Dreadful it is, thou know'st, 
To see him in thy dreams ; but when awake, 
Naked, and all uncloth'd of flesh and blood, 
As thou at last must be ; how wilt thou bear 
To see him yelling o'er thee as his prey .'' 
Bearing aloft his dark and hideous form ; 
Grinding his horrid jaws, and darting on thee 
His eyes of vivid fire ? ( The Monks sign thevi- 
selves icith great marks of fear, and Wog- 
garwolfe looks terrified.) 
Ah ! think'st thou. Thane, 
That many gifls, ay, half of all thou'rt worth. 
Would dearly purchase safety from such ter- 
rours .'' 
Wog. (in a quick perturbed voice.) 
I have the plunder of two neighb'ring chiefs. 
Whom I surprised within their towers and 

slew; 
I'll give you all— if that suffices not, 
I'll fall upon a third, ay, tho' it were 
My next of kin, nor spare of all his goods 
One fragment for myself. O holy fathers ! 
I humbly crave saintly protection of you. 
Hex. Nay, Woggarwolfe, on shrines of holy 
saints 



No gift ere works with efficacious power 
By force and violence gain'd ; unless, indeed, 
It be the spoil of some unsaintly Thane, 
Some faithless wizard or foul heretic. 
Thou hast a neighbour, impious Ethelbert ; 
His towers to burn and consecrate his spoils, 
O'er all thy sins would cast a sacred robe, 
On which nor fiend nor devil durst fix a fang. 
But now thou lackest strength for such a work, 
And may'st be dead ere thou hast time to do it : 
Therefore I counsel thee, give up thy lands. 
Wog. O, no ! I'm strong enough : my men 
are strong. 
Give us your rev'rendblessings o'er our heads, 
And we'll set out forthwith. 

Hex. Then nothing doubt that on your 
worthy zeal 
Will fall the blessing. Let us onward move. 
Where are thy followers ? [Exeunt Hex. 
talking busily to Wog. and the Monks smil- 
ing to one another as they go out.) 

Scene VI. — the royal apartment : 

THE KING IS discovered WITH HEX- 
ULF, THE SENESCHAL, AND SEVERAL 
FRIENDS OR COUNSELLORS, SEATED 
ROUND A COUNCIL TABLE. 

King, (as if continuing to speak.) 
It may be so : youth finds no obstacle; 
But 1 am old. 

Full many a storm on this grey head has beat ; 
And now, on my high station do I stand. 
Like the tired watchman in his air-rock'd 

tower, 
Who looketh for the hour of his release. 
I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest 
With those who war no more. One gleam of 

light 
Did sweetly cheer the ev'ning of my day : 
Edward, my son! he was the kindliest prop 
That age did ever rest on — he is gone. 
What sliouid I fight for now ? 

Sen. For thine own honour ; for the weal of 

Mercia, 
With weapons in our hands, and strong in 

men. 
Who to the royal standard soon will flock. 
If summon'd by thy firm and general orders. 
Shall these men be our masters .'' Heaven 

forfend ! 
Five thousand warriors might disperse the foe, 
Even with that devil Etliwald at their head; 
And shall we think of granting to those rebels 
Their insolent demands ? 

King. Good Seneschal, if that you think 

our strength 
Permits us still in open fields to strive 
With hope of good, I am not yet so old 
But I can brace these stiffen'd limbs in iron, 
And do a soldier's service, (to 2d Coun.) 

Thane of Mordath, 
Thy visage light'neth not upon these hopes ; 
What are thy thoughts .' 

Sec. Coun. E'en that these hopes will bring 

us to a state 
'Reft of all hope. 



166 



ETHWALD. A TRAGEDY. 



The rebel chiefs but seek their own enrich- 
ment, 
Not Ethwald's exaltation, good my Lord; 
Bribe them, and treat for peace. Lack you 

the means ; 
The church, for whose enriching you have 

rais'd 
This storm, can well supply it ; and most 

surely 
Will do it cheerfully, {turning to Hexulf.) 
Hex. No, by the noly mass ! that were to 
bring 
The curse of heav'n upon our impious heads. 
To spoil the holy church is sacrilege : 
And to advise sucli spoil in anywise 
Is sacrilegious and abominable. 

First Coun. I am as faithful to the holy 
church 
As thou art, angry priest. I do defy thee — 
Sen. What, have ye no respect unto the 
king .' 
I do command you, peace. Who now intrudes? 
Enter a Servant in great terrour. 
Serv. The rebel force ! the castle is surprised ! 
They are at hand — they have o'erpower'd the 
guard. 
Sec. Coun. Pray God thou liest ! I think it 
cannot be. (they all rise up alarmed.) 
Serv. It is as true as I do tread this spot. 

Enter a Soldier wounded. 
King, (to Sol.) Ha! what say'st thou.' 
thou bearest for thy words 
A rueful witness. 
Sol. Take arms, and save the king, if it be pos- 
sible. 
The rebel chieftains have the gates surprised, 
And gain'd, below, the entrance of this tower. 
They struggled for the pass ; sharp was the 

broil ; 
This speaks for me, that I have borne my part. 
(falls doion exhausted.) 
Hex. (to King.) Retire, my Lord, into the 
higher chamber. 
Your arm can give but small assistance here. 
Until this horrid visit be o'erpast. 
You may conceal yourself. 

King. No, father, never shall the king of 
Mercia 
Be, from his hiding-place, like a mean man 
Pull'd forth. But, noble friends, it seems not 

wise 
That this necessity should reach to you. 
These rebels seek my life, and with that life 
They will be satisfied. In my defence, 
Thus taken as we are, all stand were useless ; 
Therefore if now you will obey your king. 
His last command, retire and save your lives 
For some more useful end. Finding mo here. 
They will no farther search : retire, my 
friends. 
Sec. Coun. What, leave our king to face his 

foes alone ? 
King. No, not alone ; my friend the Senes- 
chal 
Will slay with me. W^c have been young 
together. 



And the same storms in our rough day of life 
Have beat upon us : be it now God's will, 
We will lay down our aged heads together 
In the still rest, and bid good night to strife. 
Have I said well, my friend ? 

(holding out his hand to the Seneschal.) 
Sen. (kissing his hand with great warmth, 
and putting one knee to the ground.) 
O my lov'd master ! many a bounteous favour 
Has shower'd upon me from your royal hand, 
But ne 'er before was I so proudly honour'd. 
(rising up with assumed grace. 
Retire, young men, for now Imustbe proud ; 
Retire, your master will confront the foe 
As may become a king. 
(Ml calling out at once.) No, no ! we will not 

leave him. 
(theij all range themselves, drawing their 
swords, round the King, and the old Senes- 
chal stands, by pre-eminence, close to his mas- 
ter's side.) 

Sec. Coun. Here is a wall through which 
they first must force 
A bloody way, ere on his royal head 
One silver hair be scath'd. 

Enter Ethwald, Alwy, and the Conspira- 
tors. 

Mwy. Now vengeance for injustice and op- 
pression ! 
Sec. Coun. On your own heads, then, be it, 
miscreant chiefs ! 
(they fight round the King : his party defend 
him bravely, till many more Conspirators 
enter, and it is overpoxocred.) 
Ethw. (aside, angrily, to Alwy, on still see-' 
ing the King standing in the midst, 
unhurt, and, with great dignity, the 
Seneschal hy his side, and no one offer- 
ing to attack him.) 
Hast thou forgot .' Where are thy chosen 

men .'' 
Is there no hand to do the needful work .-• 
This is but children's play, (to some of his 

party.) 
Come, let us search, that in the neigh'bring 

chamber, 
No lurking foe escape. [Exit with some Fol- 
lowers. 
Mwy. (giving a sign to his Followers and 
going up insolently to the King.) 
Oswal, resign thy sword. 

Sen. First take thou mine, thou base, igno- 
ble traitor. 
( Giving Alwy a blow loith his sword, upon 
whicli Alwy and his Followeis fall upon the 
King and the Seneschal, and, surrounding 
them on every side, kill them, with many 
wounds, the crowd gathering so close round 
them, that their fall cannot be seen.) 
(Re-enter Ethwald, and the crowd opening on 
each side, shoics the dead bodies of the King 
and the Seneschal.) 

Ethic, (affecting surprise.) What sight is 
this? 
Ah ! ye have gone too far. Who did this 
deed .' 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



167 



Mwy.^ My followers, much enraged at slight 

offence, 
Did fall upon him^ 
Ethw. All have their end decreed, and this, 

alas ! 
Has been his fated hour. 
Come, chiefs and valiant friends, why stand 

we here 
Looking on that which cannot be repair'd .' 
All honour shall be paid unto the dead. 
And, were this deed of any single hand 
The willing crime, he should have vengeance 

too. 
But let us now our nightly task fulfil ; 
Much have we still to do ere morning dawn. 
[Exeunt Ethw. and Followers, and the scene 
closes. 

Scene VII. — a royal apartment; 

Enter Elburga, with her hair scattered upon 
her shoulders, and with the action of one in 
violent grief, followed by Dwina, who seems 
to be soothing her. 

Elb. Cease, cease I thy foolish kindness 

soothes me not : 
My morning is o'ercast; my glory sunk: 
Leave me alone to, wring my hands and weep. 
Dwi. O, no, my princely mistress ! grieve 

not thus ! 
Over our heads the blackest clouds do pass. 
And brighter follow them. 

Elb. No, no ! my sky is night I I was a 

princess. 
Almost a queen : in gorgeous pomp beheld, 
The public gaze was ever turn'd on me : 
Proud v/as the highest Thane or haughtiest 

dame 
To do my bidding: ev'ry count' nance watch'd 
Each changeful glance of my commanding 

eye, 
To read its meaning : now my state is chang'd; 
Scoffing and insult and degrading pity 
Abide the daughter of a murder 'd king. 
Heaven's vengeance light upon them all ! 

Begone ! 
I hate the very light for looking on me ! 
Begone, and soothe me not! 
Dwi. Forgive me, princess ; do not thus de- 
spair ; 
King Oswal's daughter many friends will find. 
Elb. Friends ! hold thy peace ! — Oh it doth 

rend my heart ! 
I have been wont to talk of subjects, vassals, 
Dependants, servants, slaves, but not of 

friends. 
Where shall I. hide my head .' 

Dwi. Surely, dear mistress, with Saint 

Cuthbert's nuns, 
Whose convent by your father's gifts is rich. 
You will protection find. There quiet rest. 
And holy converse of those pious maids, 
After a while will pour into your mind 
Soft consolation, (putting her liand on Elbur- 

ga's soothingly.) 
Elb. {pushing her away.) 
Out upon thee, fool! Go, speak thy comforts 
To spirits tame and abject as thyself: 



They make me mad ; they make me thus to 

tear 
My scatter'd locks and strew them to the 
winds, (ttariiig her hair distractedly.) 

Enter a Servant. 

What brings thee here .' {to Ser.) 

Ser. Ethwald, the king, is at the gate, and 
asks # 

To be admitted to your presence, princess. 

Elb. (becoming suddenly calm.) 
What, Ethwald, say'st thou.' say'st thou tru- 
ly so? 
Ser. Yes, truly, princess. 
Elb. Ethwald, that Thane whom thou dost 

call the king .' 
Ser. Yes, he whom all the states and chiefs 
of Mercia 
Do call the king. 

Elb. He enters not. Tell him I am unwell. 
And will not be disturb'd. [Exit Ser. 

What seeks he here ? Fie, poorly fainting soul ! 
Rouse ! rouse thee up I To all the world beside 
Subdued and humbled would I rather be 
Than in the eyes of this proud man. 

Re-enter Ser. 

What say'st thou .'' 
Is he departed .' 

Ser. No, he will not depart, bui bids me say 
The entrance he has bcgg'd he now com- 
mands. 
I hear his steps behind me. 

Enter Ethwald. 

(Elburga turns aicay from him prottd'y.) 
Ethio. Elburga, turn and look upon a friend. 
Elb. {turning round kavghtily, and looking 

on kim with an assumed expression of 

anger and scornful contempt.) 
Usurping rebel, who hast slain thy master; 
Take thou a look that well beseems thy worth, 
And hie thee hence, false traitor ! 

Etfno. Yes, I will hie me hence, and with 

me lead 
A fair and beauteous subject to my will; 
That will which may not be gainsaid. For now 
High Heaven, that hath decreed thy father's 

fall. 
Hath also me appointed king of Mercia, 
With right as fair as his ; which I'll maintain, 
And by the proudest in this lordly realm 
Will be obey'd, oven by thy lofty self. 
Elb. Put shackles on my limbs, and o'er my 

head 
Let your barr"d dungeons low'r; then may'st 

thou say, 
" Walk not abroad," and so it needs must be : 
But think'st thou to subdue, bold as thou art, 
The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter .' 
Go, bind the wild winds in thy hollow shield, 
And bid them rage no more : they will obey 

thee. 
Ethw. Yes, proud Elburga, I will shackle 

thee. 
But on the throne of Mercia shalt thou sit. 
Not in the dungeon's gloom. 



168 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Ay, and, albeit the wild winds do refuse 
To be subjected to my royal will, 
The lofty spirit of king Oswal's daughter 
I will subdue, {taking her hand.) 

Elb. (throwing him off from her vehemently.) 
Off with those bloody hands that slew my 

father ! 
Thy touch is horrid to me ! 'tis a fiend's grasp : 
Oiijf tfrom my presence ! bloody Thane of 

Mairneath ! 
Ethw. Ay, frown on me, Elburga ; proudly 

frown : 
I knew thy haughty spirit, and I lov'd it. 
Even when I saw thee first in gorgeous state ; 
When, bearing high thy stately form, thou 

stoodst 
Like a proud queen, and on the gazing crowd, 
Somewhat offended with a late neglect, 
Darted thy looks of anger and disdain. 
High Thanes and Dames shrunk from thine 

eye, whilst 1, 
Like one who from the mountain's summit 

sees 
Beneath him far the harmless lightning play, 
With smiling admiration mark'd thee well, 
And own'd a kindred soul. Each angry flash, 
Of thy dark eye was loveliness to me. 
But know, proud maid, my spirit outmasters 

thine, 
And heedeth not the anger nor the power 
Of livintr thing. 

Elb. Bold and amazing man ! 

EthiD. And bold should be the man who 

weds Elburga. 
Elh. Away ! it cannot be, it shall not be ! 
My soul doth rise against thee, bloody chief. 
And bids thy power defiance. 

Ethw. Then art thou mine in truth, for 

never yet 
Did hostile thing confront me unsubdued: 
Defy me and thou'rt conquer'd. 

Elh. Thou most audacious chief! it shall 

not be. 
Ethiv. It shall, it must be, maiden, I have 

sworn it ,: 
And here repeat it on that beauteous hand 
Which to no power but with my life I'll yield. 
(grasping her hand firmly which she struggles 

to free.) 
Frown not, Elburga ! 'tis in vain to strive ; 
My spirit outmasters thine. 

Elb. Say'st thou to me thou didst not slay 

my father ? 
Say'st thou those hands are guiltless of his 

death .? 
Elhw. Think'st thou I'll plead, and say I 

have not slain 
A weak old man, whose inoffensive mind. 
And strong desire to quit the warring world 
For quiet religious rest, could be, in truth, 
No hindrance to my greatness .' were this fit- 
ting 
In Mercia's king, and proud Elburga's lord .'' 

Elb. (turning aicay.) 
Elburga's lord ! Thou art presumptuous, 

prince : 
Go hence, and brave me not. 



Ethw. I will go hence forthwith; and, by 
my side. 
The fair selected partner of my throne, 
I'll lead where the assembled chiefs of Mercia 
Wait to receive from me their future queen. 

Elb. Distract me not ! 

Ethw. Resistance is distraction. 
Who ever yet my fixed purpose cross'd ? 
Did Ethwald ever yield ? Come, queen of 

Mercia ! 
This firm grasp shall conduct thee to a throne : 
(taking her hand, ichich she feebly resists.) 
Come forth, the frowning, haughty bride of 
Ethwald. 

Elb. Wonderful man ! 
If hell or fortune fight for thee I know not, 
Nothing withstands thy power. 
(Exeunt Ethw. leading off Elb. in triumph^ 

and. Dwina following with her hands and 

eyes raised to heaven in astonishment.) 



ACT V. 

Scene L — an arched passage from 
a gateway in the royal castle, 
the sound of warlike music with- 
OUT. 

Enter Ethelbert and Selred with their 
Followers, as if just come from a long 
march : Enter, by the opposite side, Alwy, 
upon which they halt, tlie foremost of the 
Followers but Just appearing under the 
gateway. 

Mwy. Welcome, most valiant chieftains ! 
Fame reports 
Thatcrown'd with full success 3'e are return'd. 
Eth.'\GooA sooth we boast but little of our 
arms ! 
Tho' Woggaxwolfe, our base ignoble spoiler, 
Wounded and sorely shent, we've left behind, 
Again in cloister'd walls with ghostly men, 
Winding his soul, with many a heavy groan ^ 
Into a saintly frame ; God speed the work ! 
We are but just in time to save our halls. 

Sel. It is a shame that such a ruffian thief 
Should thus employ the arms of warlike 
Thanes. 
Mwy. In truth it is, but now there reigns 
in Mercia 
A warlike king, who better knows to deal 
With valiant men. The messenger inforra'd 
you .'' 
Scl. He did ; yet, be it own'd, to call him 
king 
Sounds strangely in our ears. How died king 
Oswal .' 
Etli. (to Sel.j Patience, my friend ! good 
time will shew thee all. 
Yet pray inform us, Alwy, ere we part. 
Where is young Edward .' In these late com- 
motions 
What part had he .' 
Mioy. Would to the holy saints I could 
inform you ! 
Reports there are, incongruous and absurd — 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



169 



Some say, in hunting from his followers 

stray 'd, 
Passing at dusk of eve a high-swoln stream, 
Therein he perish'd ; others do maintain 
That, loathing greatness, he conceals himself 
In some lone cave : But, as I bear a heart 
True to king Ethwald and the pubhc weal, 
I know of him no more. 

Sel. Thou liest I 

Eth. (pulling back Selred.) Peace, art thou 
mad? 

Mwij. {pretending not to hear.) What said 
brave Selred.^ 

Eth. A hasty exclamation of no meaning. 

Mioy. I must away and bear the welcome 
tidings 
Of your arrival to the royal ear. 

Eth. But stop, before thou go'st I fain 
would know 
How far'd Elburga in the passing storm ? 
Where liKS she refuge found ? 

Mwy. Within these walls ; she is the queen 
of Mercia. 

Eth. I am indebted to thee. (Exit Alwy. 

Sel. {staring toith surprise upon Ethelbert. ) 
What dost thou think of this .' Did we hear 

truly ? 
To the usurper of her father's crown. 
And if our fears be true, his murd'rer too ! 
To him ! O most unnatural ! 

Eth. Ay, so it is. As one who ventures 
forth 
After an earthquake's awful visitation. 
The country round in strange unwonted guise 
Beholds; here swelling heights and lierby 

knolls. 
Where smok'd the cottage and the white 

flocks browz'd, 
Sunk into turbid pools ; there rifted rocks, 
With all their shaggy woods upon their sides, 
In the low bosom of the flowery vale 
Resting uncouthly — even so does lie. 
Who looks abroad after the storms of state, 
Strange changes see; unnatural and strange. 

Sel. It makes my spirit boil — the gentle 
Edward ! 
So gently brave ! 

Eth. Yes, there is cause of grief 
And indignation too : but Ethwald reigns, 
Howe'er he gain'd his height, and he possesses 
The qualities that suit his lofty station. 
With them I fear he has his passions also. 
Hostile to public good : be it our part 
To use the influence we still retain 
O'er his ambitious mind for Mercia's weal ! 
This is our duty now. 

Sel. I'll take thy counsel, {to the Soldiers.) 
Follow, weary comrades. 
[Exeunt Eth. and Sel. and their Followers, 

marching across the stage. 

Scene II. — a royal apartment. 

Elburga, as Queen, discovered sitting on a 
chair of state, with iJwina, Ladies, and 
Officers of State attending. 

Elb. We've waited long : how goes the 
day ? know'st thou ? 
21 



{to First Officer.) 
First. Offi. As comes the light across this 
arched roof 
From those high windows, it should wear, 

me thinks, 
Upon noon day. 

Elb. and the procession to the royal chapel 
Should at this hour begin. The king, per- 
chance. 
Is with afliairs detain'd : go thou and see. 

[Exit First Officer. 
I am impatient now. {voice heard without.) 
What voice is that ? 

First SONG withmit. 

Hark ! the cock crows, and the wind blows, 

Away, my love, away ! 
Quick, d'on thy weeds and tell thy bead s. 

For soon it will be day. 

First. Lad. 'Tis sadly wild. 
Dwin. 'Tis sad but wond'rous sweet. 
Who may it be .'' List, list ! she sings again. 

Second SONG without. 

Where lay'st thou thy careless head ? 
On the cold heath is my bed. 
Where the moor-cock shuts his wing. 
And the brown snake weaves his ring. 
Safe and fearless will I be. 
The coiled adder stings not me. 

Elh. {rising displeased from her seat.) 
Call those who wait without. What may this 
mean ? 

Enter an Attendant. 

Whose voice is that which in a day of joy 
Such plaintive music makes? 

Atten. Pardon, my royal dame ! be not 
offended I 
'Tis a poor maid bereaved of her mind. 
Rent are her robes, her scatter'd locks un- 
bound. 
Like one who long thro' rugged ways hath 

stray 'd. 
Beat with the surly blast ; but never yet, 
Tho' all so sorely shent, did I behold ' 
A fairer maid. She aims at no despite : 
She's wild, but gentle. 
Dwi. O hark again ! 

Third SONG wUhmit. 

* Once upon my cheek 

He said the roses grew. 
But now they're wash'd away 

With the cold ev'ning dew. 

For I wander thro' the night. 

When all but me take rest, 
And the moon's soft beams fall piteously 

Upon my troubled breast. 

{a -pause.) 



* For this third Song, which is the only litera- 
ry assistance either in verse or prose that I have 
ever received, I am indebted to the pen of a 
friend. 



170 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY, 



Fourth SONG. 

Ah, maiden ! bear the biting smart, 

Nor thus thy loss deplore j 
The Thane's daughter has his heart, 
He will return no more. 

First Lad. 'Tis strangely melancholy. 
Dwi. 'Tis like the mournful sounds which 

oftentimes 
The midniglit watcher, in his lonely tower, 
Hears, with the wailing blast most sweetly 

mingled. 
Elh. (to Attendant.) Go thou and lead her 

hither. 
Atten. I will, great queen. — But here she 

comes unbidden. 

Enter Bertha, with a wild unsettled air, and 
her hair scattered upon her shoulders. The 
Ladies gather about her with curiosity; 

First Lad. How fair she is ! 
Sec. had. Her eyes of lovely blue, 
Grentle but restless. Dost thou see that 
glance .' {to Sec. Lad.) 

I fear to look upon her. 

Dwi. Fie, fie, upon it ! press not near her 
thus : 
She seems offended : I will speak to her. 
(to Berth.) Sweet Lady, art thou sad .' 
(Bertha looks stcdfastlij at her, then drops her 
head upon her breast and makes no answer.) 
We would be kind to thee. 
(Berth, then looks rnorc gently on her, hut is 
still silent.) 
First Lad. Dost thou not speak, thou who 

canst sing so well ^ 
Dwi. Who taught thee those sweet notes .-' 
Berth. The night was dark : I met spirits 
on my way : 
They sung me sweet songs, but they were_sor- 
rowful. 
Dwi. Ah, woe is me ! and dost thou wan- 
der, then. 
In the dark night alone, no one to tend tliee.^ 
Berth. When the moon's dark, I follow the 
night-bird's cry, 
And it doth guide my way. — But he'll return, 
So do they tell me, when sweet violets blow 
And siunmer comes again. 
Dwi. And who is he .' 
Berth. List, and the winds will tell thee as 
they pass : 
The stilly air will whisper it. But softly. 
Tell it to none again. They must not know 
How stern he is, for he was gentle once. 
DidL a cruel heart had he who could for- 
sake thee ! 
Ber. {]}viting her hand eagerly on Dwina's 
moutli.) 
Hush, hush ! we'll not offend him. He is 

great, 
And must not be offended. 

EU). (coming near her.) What, say'st thou 
he is great ? 
Rent are thy weeds and thin thy ruffled robe : 
Why didst tiiou leave thy home thus unpro- 
tected ? 



Berth, (turning hastily upon her.) 
I saw his banner streaming in the air, 
And I did follow it. 

Elb. His banner in the air ! What is thy 

love .'' 
Berth, (looking fiercely at her.) 
They say he is a king. 

Elb. (sinilivg.) I'cor maid ! 'tis ever thus 
with such as she ; 
They still believe themselves of some high 

state, 
And mimick greatness. 

Berth. Thou art a fair dame and a gay — 
but go ; 
Take off tiiine eyes from me ; I love thee not. 
(Shrinks from Elburga, walking backwards 
and looking fro^cningly at her ; then beckon- 
ing to Dwina, she speaks in her ear.) 
They say a royal dame has won his faith, 
Stately and proud. But in a gloomy dream 
I heard it first, confused and terrible : 
And oft-times, since, the fiend of night re- 
peats it, 
As on my pressed breast he sits and groans. 
I'll not believe it. 

Dwi. What is thy name, sweet Lady .'' 
Berth, (rubbing her hand across her fore' 
head as if trijing to recollect.) 
I had a name that kind friends call'd me by ; 
And with a blessing did the holy man 
Bestow it on me. But I've wander'd far 
Thro' wood and wilds, and strangely on my 

head 
The 'numbing winds have beat, and I have 
lost it 

Be not oflcnded with me 

For, Lady, thou art gentle, and I fear thee. 

{bowing submissively to Dwina.) 

Enter Ethelbert, 

Eth. (to Dwina, after looking at Bertha.) 
What maid is that so haggard and so wild .•' 
Dwi. A wand'ring maniac, but so fair and 
gentle 
Thou needs must speak to her. 

Eth. {going up to Berth.) Fair Lady, wilt 
thou suffer — gracious heaven ! 
What see I here ! the sweet and gentle Ber- 
tha ! 
Ah, has it come to this ? alas, alas ! 
Sweet maiden, dost thou know me .' 

Berth, (after looking earnestly at him.) 
I know thee well enough. They call thee 

mad ; 
Thy wild and raving words oft made the ears 
Of holy men to tingle. 
Eth. She somewhat glances at the truth. 
Alas! 
I've seen her gay and blooming as the rose, 
And cheerful, too, as song of early kirk. 
I've seen her prattle on her nurse's lap, 
Innocent bud! and now I see her thus, (weeps.) 
Berth. Ah ! dost thou weep ? are they un- 
kind to thee ? (shaking her head.) 
Yes, yes! from out the herd, like a mark'd 
deer, 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



171 



They drive tlie poor distraught. The storms 

of heaven 
Beat on him : gaping hinds stare at his woe ; 
Ahd no one stops to bid heav'n speed his way. 
Eth. {flourish of trumpets.) Sweet maid, 

retire. 
Berth. Nay, nay ! I will not go : there be 
without 
Those who will frown upon me. 

Eth. {endeavouring to lead her off.) 
I pray thee be entreated ! 
(Dwina takes hold of her also to lead her off, 
hut she breaks from them furiously.) 
Berth. Ye shall not force me ! Wist ye, 
who I am .' 
The whirlwind in its strength contends with 

me, 
And I o'ermaster it. 

Eth. Stand round her then, I pray you, 
gentle ladies ! 
The king must not behold her. 
{the Ladies gather round Bertha and conceal 
her. ) 

Enter Ethwald, followed by Thanes and 

Attendants. 

Ethw. {after returning the obeisance of the 
assembly.) 
This gay and fair attendance on our person 
And on our queen, most honour'd lords and 

dames, 
We much regard ; and could my heart ex- 
press — 
(Bertha hearing his voice shriclts out.) 
What cry is that .'' 
Did. Regard it not : it is a wand'ring 
maid, 
Distracted in her mind, who is in search, 
As she conceits it, of some faithless lover. 
She sings sweet songs of wildest harmony, 
And at the queen's command we led her in. 
Ethw. Seeking her love ! distracted in her 
mind ! 
Have any of my followers wrong'd her.' 

Speak ! 
If so it be, by righteous heaven I swear ! 
The man, whoe'er he be, shall dearly rue it. 
(Bertha shrieks again, and breaking through 
the crowd runs up to Ethwald. He starts 
back, and covers his eyes with one hand, 
whilst she, catching hold of the other, presses 
it to her breast.) 

Berth. I've found thee now, and let the 
black fiend growl, 
i will not part with thee. I've followed thee 
Thro' crag and moor and wild. I've heard thy 

voice 
Sound from the dark hill's side, and follow'd 

thee. 
I've seen thee on the gath'ring twilight 

clouds, 
Ride with the stately spirits of the storm. 
But thou look'dst sternly on me. 
O be not angry ! I will kneel to thee ; 
For thou art glorious now, as I am told. 
And must have worship, (kneeling andbcno- 
ing her head meekly to the ground.) 



Ethic, {turning away.) O God ! O God ! 
Where art thou, Ethelbert.'' 
Thou might'st have saved me this. 

{looking round and seeing that Ethelbert 
weeps, he also becomes softened and ttirns to 
Bertha with great emotion.) 
Berth. They say she's fair and glorious : woe 
is me ! 
I am but form'd as simple maidens are. 
But scorn me not : 1 have a powerful spell, 
A Druid gave it me, which on mine arm 
When once enclasp'd, will make me fair as 

she ; 
So thou wilt turn to me. 

Ethto. O Ethelbert ! I pray thee pity me '. 
This sight doth move me, e'en to agony. 
Remove her hence ; but O deal gently with 

her! 
(Ethelbert, endeavours again to lead her off, 
and the Ladies eroded about her. She is 
then carried out, and is heard to scream as 
they are carrying her.) 
Ethw. {in great disorder.) Come, come a- 
way ! we do but linger here. 
(Elburga, who, since Ethwald's entering, has 
remained in the back ground, but agitated 
loith pass ions, note advances angrily to him.) 
Elb. So thou hast known this maid .' 
Ethw. Fie ! speak not to me now. 
Elb. Away, away ! 
Thou hast lodged softer passions in thy breast 
Than 1 have rcckon'd on. 

Ethw. {shaking her off.) Fie ! turn thy face 
aside, and shade thine eyes ! 
That no soft passion in thy bosom lives, 
Is thy opprobrium, woman, and thy shame. 
Elb. There are within my breast such 
thoughts, I trust. 
As suit my lofty state. 

Ethw. {aside to Elb.) Go, heartless page- 
ant, go ! 
Lead on thy senseless show, and move me 

not 
To do thee some despite. 
{aloud to the Ladies.) Move on, fair dames. 

{to Elb. who seems unwilling to go.) 

The king commands it. (Exeunt Elburga 

and Ladies. 

First Off. {to Ethw. who stands with his 

eyes fixed on the ground.) 

Please you, in}' Lord, but if you move not 

also, 
The ceremony will, in sooth, appear 
As marr'd and cut in twain. 

Ethw. What say'st thou, marshal .' 
First Offi. Please you, my Lord, to move ? 
Ethw. Ay, thou say'st well : in the soul's 
agony, 
A meaner man might turn aside and weep. 
(Exeunt Ethw. tcith part of his train, the 
others ranging themselves in order to follow 
him. Jl great confiision and noise is then 
heard without, and a, voice calling out " the 
king is wounded." The croiod press back 
again in disorder, and presently re-enter 
Ethw. supported.) 
First Off. My Lord, how is it with you? 



172 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Ethw. I fear but ill, my friend. Where is 
the man 
That gave me this fell stroke P 
First Offi. I cannot tell : they have sur- 
rounded him. 
Enter Second Officer. 
Sec. Offi. Ho is secured. 
Ethw. Is it a Mercian hand.'' 
Sec. Offi. It is, my Lord, but of no high 
degree. 
It is the frantic stroke of a poor groom. 
Who did his late Lord love; and, for that crime, 
Last night, with wife and children weeping 

round him. 
Was by your soldiers turn'd into the cold. 
Houseless and bare. 

Ethw. Curse on their ruffian zeal ! 
Torment him not, but let him die in peace. 
Would I might say — . I'm very faint, my 

friends : 
Support me hence, I pray you ! 

[Exeunt Ethw. supported. 

Scene III. — a royal apartment: an 

OPEN DOOR IN FRONT, SHEWING AN IN- 
NER CHAMBER, IN WHICH IS DISCOV- 
ERED ETHWALD LYING UPON A COUCH, 
AND SURROUNDED WITH THE THANES 
AND OFFICERS OF HIS COURT, SELRED 
AND ETHELBERT STANDING ON EACH 
SIDE OF HIM. 

Sel. (after Ethw. has said something to him 
in a low voice.) 
He is too much inclosed, and longs for air: 
He'll breathe more freely in the outer cham- 
ber; 
Let us remove him. 

{They lift him in his couch, and hring him 
foTicard to the front of the stage.) 
First Offi. How are you now, my Lord .'' 
Ethio. Somewhat exhausted ; and albeit, 
good Thanes, 
I greatly am indebted to your love. 
For a short space I fain would be alone. 
First Offi. Farewell ! God send your high- 
ness rest ! meantime 
We'll pray for your recovery. 
Sec. Offi.. And heaven will hearour prayers. 
(Omnes.) Amen, amen ! 
JEthic. Pray heaven to order all things for 
the weal 
Of my good realm, and I shall be well pleased 
To live or die. Adieu ! [Exeunt «// hut 
Ethw. Selred, and Ethelbcrt. Jlftnr 
a pause, in which Ethw. seems agi- 
tated and uneasy. 
My dearest Selred, think it not unkind, 
But go thou too. [Exit Selred. 

(Raisiiig himself on the couch, and taking both 
the hands of Ethelbert, tohich he presses in 
his, looking up in his face expressively for 
som,e time before bespeaks.) 
I am oppress'd. To them, even in this state, 
I still must be a king : to you, my friend. 
Let me put off all seeming and constraint, 



And be a poor weak man. (a pause.) Thou 

speakest not. 
Thy face is sad and solemn. Well I see 
Thou look'st upon me as a dying wretch-^ 
There is no hope. 

Eth. Much will it profit thee 
To be prepar'd as tho' there were no hope ; 
For if thou liv'st thou'lt live a better man, 
And if thou diest, may heaven accept it of 

thee ! 
Ethw. O that it would ! But, my good 

Ethelbert, 
To be thus seized in my high career. 
With all my views of glory op'ning round 

me — 
The Western state ev'n now invites mine 

arms. 
And half Northumberland, in little time, 
Had been to Mercia join'd. 

Eth. Nay, think not now, I pray thee, of 

these matters ! 
Tliey mix uncouthly with the pious thoughts 
That do become your state. 

Ethw. I know it well ; 
But they do press so closely on my heart 

I did think to be remember'd long ! 
Like those grand visitations of the earth, 
That on its alter'd face for ages leave 
The traces of their might. Alas, alas ! 

1 am a powerful, but a passing storm, 
That soon shall be forgotten ! 

Eth. I do beseech thee think of better 

things ! 
Et.htc. Thou see'st I weep. — Before thee 1 
may weep, (dropping his head, upon 
his breast and groaning deeply.) 
Long have I toil'd and stain'd my hands in 

blood 
To gain pre-eminence ; and now, alas ! 
Newly .arrived at this towering height, 
With all my schemes of glory rip'ning round 

me, 
I close mine eyes in darkness, and am nothing. 
Eth. What, nothing say'st thou ^ 
Ethw. O no, Ethelbert ! 
I look beyond this world, and look with dread 
Where all for me is fearful and unknown. 
Death I have daily braved in fields of nght, 
And, when a boy, oft on the air-hung bough 
I've fearless trode, beneatli mo roaring far 
Tiie deep swoln floods, with ev'ry erring step 
Instant destruction. Had I pcrish'd then — 
Would that T had, since it has come to this ! 
(raising up his hands vehemently to heaven.) 
Eth. Be not so vehement : this will endan- 
ger 
The little chance thou still may'st have for 

life. 
The God we fear is merciful. 

Ethw. Ay, he is merciful ; but may it reach — 
O listen to me ! — Oswal I have uun-dor'd. 
And Edward, brave and gentle — Ay, this bites 
With a fell tooth I I vilely have enthrall'd; 
Of all his rights deprived. The loving Bertha: 
Too well thou know'st what I have been to 

her — 
Ah ! thlnkest thou a thousand robed priests 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



173 



Can pray down mercy on a soul so foul ? 

Etk. The inward sighs of humble penitence 
Rise to the ear of heav'n when pealed hymns 
Are scatter'd with the sounds of common air ; 
If I indeed may speak unto a king 
Of low humility. 

Ethio. Thy words bite keenly, friend. O 
king me not ! 
Grant me but longer lif?, and thou shalt see 
What brave amends I'll make for past oifences. 
Thou thinkest hardly of me ; ne'ertheless, 
Rough as my warrior's life has been, good 

thoughts 
Have sometimes harbour'd here. 

(putting his hand on his heart.) 
If I had lived, 

It was my full intent that, in my power. 
My people should have found prosperity : 
1 would have proved to them a gen'rous 
Lord. 

If I had lived Ah ! think'st thou, Ethel- 

bert, 
There is indeed no hope .' 
Eth. I may not flatter you. 
Ethic, {holding up his clasped hands.) 
Then heav'n have mercy on a guilty soul ! 
Good Ethelbert, full well thou know'st that I 
No coward am: from power of mortal thing 
I never shrunk. O might I still contend 
With spear and helm, and shield and bran- 

dish'd blade I 
But I must go where spear and helm and 

shield 
Avail not : 
Where the skill'd warriour cas'd in iron, 

stands 
Defenceless as the poor uncrusted worm. 
Some do conceit that disembodied spirits 
Have in them more capacity of woe 
Than flesh and blood maintain. I fee! ap- 
pall 'd : 
Yes, Thane of Sexford, I do say appall'd. 
For, ah I thou know'st not in how short a 

space 
The soul of man within him may be changed. 
Eth. I know it all too well. But be more 
calm ; 
Thou hast a task to do, and short perhaps 
May be the time allowed thee. True repent- 
ance 
With reparation of offences past 
Iseveryok'd. Declare it as thy will 
That Edward do succeed unto his rights : 
And for poor Bertha, she shall be my charge ; 
I'll tend and cheer her in my quiet home. 
Ethw. Thou dost prevent my boon : heaven 
bless thee for it ! 
I give thee power to do whate'erthou think'st 
I, living, should have done. 'Tis all I can. 
And gracious heaven accept it at my hands ! 
Eth. Amen, my friend ! I'll faithfully fulfil 
Th' important trust — Ha I how thy visage 

changes ! 
Thy mind's e.xertion' has outrun thy strength. 
He faints away. Help ! who attends with- 
out.? 



, Enter i Selred with Attendants. 
Support the king : whether a sudden faint 
Or death be now upon him, trow I not, 
But quickly call the queen. 

Scl. Alas, my brother ! (assisting Eth. to 

raise Ethw.'s head.) 
Eth. Raise him gently, Selred. 
For, if that life within him still remain. 
It may revive him. 

Sel. Ah ! see how changed he is ! Alas, my 
brother '. 
Pride of my father's house, is this thy end ? 

Enter Elburga, Nobles, &c. 
Elh. Let mo approach unto my royal Lord. 
Good Ethelbert, thou long hast known thy 

king, 
Look'd he e'er thus before ? (looking on Ethw.) 
Eth. No, royal dame ; and yet 'tis but a 
faint ; 
See, he revives again. 

Ethw. (opening his cijcs.) Who are about 

me now .' 
Eth. The queen and nobles. 
Sel. And Selred, too, is here, my dearest 

Ethwald ! 
Ethic, (holding out his hand to Sel.) 
Ay, noble brother, thou wert ever kind. 
Faintness returns again ; stand round, my 

friends. 
And hear my dying words. It is my will 
That Ethelbert shall, after my decease. 
With the concurrence of the nation's council, 
The kingdom settle as may best appear 
To his experienced wisdom, and retain. 
Until that settlement, the kingly power. 
Faintness returns again ; I say no more. 
Art tliou displeas'd, my Selred .' 

Sel. (kneeling and kissing his hand.) 
No, brother, let your dying will bereave me 
Ev'n of my father's lands, and with my sword 
I will maintain it. 

Etlno. Thou art a gen'rous brotlier; fare 

thee well ! 
Elh. What, is the queen, indeed, so poor a 
thing 
In Mercia's state, that she o'er-passed is, 
Unhonour'd and unmention'd .' 

Ethw. (to Elb. waving his hand, faintly.) 

Be at peace ! 
Thou shalt have all things that become thy 

state. 
(To Attendants.) Lower ray head, I pray you. 
First Offi,. He faints again. 
Sec. Offi. Ho will not hold it long : 
The kingdom will be torn with dire conten- 
tions, 
And the Northumbrian soon will raise his 
head. 
Ethw. (raising himself eagerly with great 
vehemence.) 
Northumberland ! Oh I did purpose soon. 
With thrice five thousand of my chosen men, 
To've compass'd his proud towers. 
Death, death ! thou art at hand, and all is 

ended ! 
(groans and falls back upon, the couch.) 



174 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



First Offi. This is a faint from which I fear, 
brave Thanes, 
He will awake no more. 

■Sec. Offi.. Say'st thou ? Go nearer and ob- 
serve the face. 
Fiiii Offi. If that mine eyes did ever death 
behold, 
This is a dead man's visage. 

Sec. Offi. Let us retire. My good Lord 
Ethelbcrt, 
You shall not find me backward in your ser- 
vice. 
First Off. Nor me. 
Omnes. Nor any of us. 
Eth. I thank you. Thanes '. 'Tis fit you 
should retire ; 
But Selred andjimyself, and, of your number, 
Two chosen by yourselves, will watch the 

body. 
(to Dwina, who supports Elburga, and secjiis 
soothing her.) 



Ay, gentle Dwina, soothe your royal mistress, 
And lead her hence, {after looking steadfast- 
ly on the body.) 
Think ye, indeed, that death hath dealt his 
blow ? 
First Offi. Ah, yes, my Lord ! that counte- 
nance is death. 
(Selred kneels by the body, and hides his head.) 

Eth. Then peace be to his spirit ! 
A brave and daring soul is gone to rest. 
Thus powerful death th' ambitious manarrests. 
In midst of all his great and towering hopes. 
With heart high swoln : as the omnipotent 

frost 
Seizes the rough enchafed northern deep, 
And all its mighty billows, heav'd aloft, 
Boldly commixing with the clouds of heaven, 
Are fix'd to rage no more. 

(The Curtain drops.) 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 

PART SECOND. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN: 

Ethwald. 

Ethelbert. 

Selred. 

Edward. 

Alwy. 

Heredlf. 

Hexulf. 

Ongar. 

Thane6, Soldiers, &c. &c. 

WOMEN: 

Elbdrga. 

DwiVA. 

Ladies, Attendants, &c..&c. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — a gloomy apartment in 
an old saxon castle, with small 
grated windows very high from 
the ground. edward is discov- 
ered sitting by a table, and 
tracing figures with chalk upon 
it, which he freliuently rues out 
again; at last, throwing away 
the chalk, he fixes his eyes up- 
on the ground, and continues 
for some time in a melancholy 

POSTURE. 

Enters to him the Keeper, carrying something 
in his hand. 

Edward. What brings thee now ^ it surely 

cannot be 
The time of food : my prison hours are wont 
To fly more heavily. 

Keep. It is not food : I bring wherewith, 

my Lord, 
To stop a rent in these old walls, that oft 
Hath griev'd me, when I've thought of you 

o'nights ; 
Thro' it the cold wind visits you. 

Ed. And let it enter i it shall not be stopp'd. 
Who visits me besides the winds of heaven .' 
Who mourns with me but the sad sighing 

wind ^ 
Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones 
Of voices once belov'd and sounds long past 
But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind .' 



Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek 
As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows 
But the free piteous wind .' 
I will not have it stopp'd. 

Keep. My Lord, the winter now creeps on 

apaee : 
Hoar frost this morning, on our shelter'd fields 
Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun, 
Which scarce had power to melt it. 
Ed. Glanced to th' up-risen sun ! Ay, such 

fair morns, 
When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on. 
Like to a gemmed bride ! your rustics, now, 
And early hinds, will set theif clouted feet 
Thro' silver webs, so bright and finely wrought 
As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on 
Their careless way, unheeding. 
Alas, how many glorious things there be 
To look upon ! Wear not the forests, now. 
Their latest coat of richly varied dyes.' 
Keej). Yes, good my Lord, the cold chill 

year advances; 
Therefore, I pray you, let me close that wall. 
Ed. I tell thee no, man ; if the north air 

bites. 
Bring me a cloak. — Where is thy dog to-day ? 
Keep. Indeed, I wonder that he came not 

with me 
As he is wont. 

Ed. Bring him, I pray thee, when thou 

com'st again. 
He wags his tail and looks up to my face 
With the assured kindliness of one 
Who has not injur'd me. How goes your 

sport .' 
Keep. Nobly, my Lord ; and much it plea- 
ses me 
To see your mind again so sooth'd and calm. 
Ed. i thank thee : know'st thou not that 

man is form'd 
For varied states ; to top the throne of power. 
Or in a toad's hole squat, shut from the light .' 
He can bear all things ; yet, if thou hast 

grace. 
Lead me for once into the open air, 
To see the woods, and fields, and country 

round 
In the fair light of heaven. 

Keep. I must not do it ; I am sworn to this ; 
But all indulgence, suited to this state 
Of close confinement, gladly will I grant. 
Ed. A faithful servant to a wicked lord, 
Whoe'er he be, art thou. Is Oswal dead .' 
Or does some powerful Thane his power 

usurp ? (« pause.) 

Thou wilt not answer me. (« horn heard 

without.) 



176 



ETHWALD. A TRAGEDY. 



Keep. Ha I who is at the gate that sounds 
so boldly ? 
I'll mount this tower and see. fExix hastily, 
and Edward takes his seat again as 
before.) 
Keep, (without, calling down from the Tow- 
er.) 
It is a company of armed men, 
Bearing a royal ensign. 

Ed. {starting from Ids scat.) Then let noe 
rise and brace my spirits up ! 
They bring me death or freedom ! 

Re-enter Keeper from the Tower. 

{eagerly to him.) What think'st thou of it ? 
Keep. I'll to the gate, and meet them in- 
stantly. 
{Exit, crossing over the stage hastily.) 
Ed. (alone.) An it be death, they'll do it 
speedily, 
And there's the end of all. Ah, liberty ! 
An it be tliou, cnlarger of man's self! — 
My heart doth strangely beat as tho' it were. 
I hear their steps already : they come quickly : 
Ah ! how step they who joyful tidings bear ! 
Keep, (calling loithout to Edw. h^orc they 
enter. 
My Lord, my Lord ! you're a free man again ! 
Ed. Am I ? great God of heaven, how good 
thou art ! 

Enter two Thanes, conducted by the Keeper. 

Ed. (accosting them.) Brave men , ye come 
upon a blessed errand, 
And let me bless you. 

First Tk. Withjoyunto ourselves we bring, 
my Lord, 
Your full enlargement from the highest power 
That Mercia now obeys. 

Ed. Not from King Oswal .' 

Sec. Th. No, most noble Ethling : 
From the Lord Regent Ethelbert we come. 

Ed. Mine uncle, then, is dead. 

Sec. Th. E'en so, my Lord. 

Ed. Ah ! good and gentle, and to me most 
kind ! (weeps, hiding his face.) 
Died he peacefully .'' 

First Th. He is at peace. 

Ed. Ye are reserv'd with me. 
But yc are wise, perhaps ; time will declare it. 
Give me your hands; ye are my loving friends. 
And you, my good guardian of this castle, too, 
You have not been to me a surly keeper. 
(taking the Thanes icarmly by the hand, and 

afterwards the Keeper.) 

(Jl second horn sounds without very loud.) 

First Th. Ha ! at our heels anotlier mes- 
senger 
So quickly sent. Exit Keep. 

Sec. Th. What may this mean ? 

Ed. Nay, wait not for him here. 
Let us go Ibrth from these inclosing walls. 
And meet hini in the light and open day. 

First Th. 'Tis one, I hope, sent to confirm 
our errand : 
How came he on so quickly ? 



Ed. Thou hopest, Thane ? Oh ! then thou 
doubtest too. (pauses and looks earn- 
estly in their faces.) 

Enter Ongar conducted by the Keeper. 
First Th. (to Ongar.j Thine errand ? 
Ongar. That thou shalt know, and the 
authority 
Which warrants it. You here are come, 

grave Thanes, 
Upon the word of a scarce-named regent, 
To set this pris'ner free ; but 1 am come 
With the sign'd will of Ethwald to forbid it ; 
And here I do retain him. (laying hold of 
Edw.) 
First Th. Loose thy unhallowed grasp, 
thou base deceiver ! 
Nor face us out with a most wicked tale. 
We left the king at Ms extremity. 
And long ere this he must have breath'd his 
last. 
Ongar. Art thou in a league with death to 
know so well 
When he perforce must come to sick men's 

beds .'' 
King Ethwald lives, and will live longer too 
Than traitors wish for. Look upon these 

orders : 
Knowest thou not his sign.!" (shewing his 
warrant.) 
(Both Thanes after reading it.) 'Tis 

wonderful ! 
Ongar. Is it so wonderful 
A wounded man, fainting with loss of blood 
And rack'd with paiuj should seem so near 

his end. 
And yet recover .' 

Sec. Th. Ethwald then lives ? 
Ongar. Ay, and long live the king ! 
Ed. What words are these .' 
I am as one who, in a misty dream. 
Listens to things wild and fantastical. 
Which no congruity nor kindred bear 
To prcconceiv'd impressions. 
King Ethwald, said ye .' and is Ethwald king ? 
First Th. He did succeed your uncle. 
Ed. And by his orders am I here detain'd .' 
First Th. Even so, my Lord. 
Ed. It cannot be. (turning to Sec. Th.) 

Thou say'st not so, good Thane .-' 
Sec. Th. I do believe it. 
Ed. Nay, nay ; ye are deceiv'd. (turning 
to Ongar.) 
What says't thou .' 

Was I by Ethwald 's orders here imprison'd .' 
Ongar. Yes, yes ; who else had power or 

will to do it.'' 
Ed. (holding his clasp'dhands.) Then hope, 
farewell ! 
My gleam is dark ; my rest is in the dust ! 

that an enemy had done this wrong ! 

But Ethwald, thou who to my heart wert 

press'd 
As dearest brother never was by him 
Who shar'd his mother's breast ! Thou in 

whose fame 

1 gloried — I who spoke not of my own ! — 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



17T 



When shouting crowds proclaim'd thy hon- 

our'd name, 
I ever join'd with an ungrudging heart ; 
Yea, such true kindred feehng bore I to him, 
E'en at his praise I wept. I pray you, sirs ! 
(bursting into tears.) this hath overcome me. 
Ongar. (to Thanes.) Why do you tarry 
here .' You've seen my warrant. 
Depart with me, and leave the prisoner. 
First Til. What, shall we leave him in this 
piteous state, 
Lone and uncomforted ? 

Ongar. It must be so ; there is no time to 
lose. 
Come, follow me ; my men are at the gate. 
(.is they are all about to depart, Edward, start- 
ing fiiriously forward to the door, flies upon 
Ongar, and seizes him by the throat. 
Ed. What ! leave me here, fiend ! Am I 
not a man. 
Created free to breathe the circling air 
And range the boundless earth as thy base 

self. 
Or thy more treach'rous lord .'' thou tyrant's 

slave ! 
(As he struggles with him, Ongar calls loudly, 
and immediately the apartment is filled with 
armed men, who separate them.) 
Ongar. (to his Followers.) Remove that 
madman to the inner chamber. 
Keeper, attend your duty, (to the Thanes.) 
Follow me. 

[Exeunt Ongar and Thanes, &c. 

Keep, (to Edw. as some remaining armed 

men are leading him off by the opposite side.) 

Alas ! alas ! my Lord, to see you thus. 

In closer bondage ! Pray ! good soldiers, pray ! 

Let him in this apartment still remain : 

He'll be secure ; I'll pledge my life 

Ed. No, no ! 
Let them enchain me in a pitchy gulph ! 
'Twere better than this den of weariness 
Which my soul loathes. What care I now 
for ease .'' 

[Exeunt Ed. led off by the men. 

Scene II. — an apartment in th£ roy- 
al CASTLE. 

Enter Ethelbert meeting with Selred, who 
enters at the same time from a door at the 
bottom of the stage. 

Eth. How did'st thou leave the king .' 
Sel. Recov'ring strength with ev'ry passing 
hour. 
His spirits too, that were so weak and gloomy, 
From frequent fainting and the loss of blood, 
Now buoyant rise, and much assist the cure 
Which all regard as wonderful. 

Eth. It has deceiv'd us, yet I've heard of 

such. 
Sel. Thou lookest sadly on it : how is this ? 
With little cost of thought I could explain 
In any man but thee that cloudy brow ; 
But well I know thou didst not prize the 

power k. 

With which thou wert invested. 
22 



Eth. Selred, this hasty gloom will prove 
too short 
To work in Ethwald's mind the change we 

look'd for. 
And yet he promis'd well. 

Sel. Ay, and will well perform ; mistrust 
hinl not. 
I must confess, nature has form'd his mind 
Too restless and aspiring; and of late. 
Having such mighty objects in his grasp, 
He lias too reckless been of others' rights. 
But, now that all is gain'd, mistrust him not : 
He'll prove a noble king ; a good one too. 
Eth. Thou art his brother. 
Sel. And thou his friend. 
Eih. I stand reprov'd before thee. 
A friend, indeed, should gentler thoughts 

maintain. 
And so I will endeavour. 

Sel. Give me thy valiant hand ; full well I 
know 
The heart which it pertains to. 

Eth. I hear him, now, within his chambet 

stir. 
Sd. Thou'lt move him best alone. God 
speed thy zeal ! 
I'll stand by thee the while and mark his eye. 
(Eth. remains on the front of the stage uihilst 
Ethwald enters behind him from the door at 
the bottom of the stage, leaning upon an at- 
tendant. 

EthW. (to Sel. as he goes up to Eth.) 
How, Ethelbert, our friend, so deep in 

thought ? 
(To the Attendant.) Leave me awhile, me- 

thinks a brother's arm 
Will be a kindlier staff. (Exit Attendant, and 

he leans upon Sel.) 
Hovi^, Ethelbert, my friend ! 
What vision from the nether world of sprites 
Now rises to thine eyes, thus on the ground 
So fix'd and sternly bent .' 

Eth. Pardon, my Lord ! my mind should 
now be turn'd 
To cheerful thoughts, seeingyouthus restor'd. 
How fares it with you .' 

Ethio. E'en as with one, on a rude moun- 
tain's side, 
Who suddenly in seeming gloom inclosed 
Of drizly night, athwart the wearing mist 
Sees the veil'd sun break fortii in heaven's 

wide arch, 
And shewing still a lengthen'd day before 

him. 
As with a trav'ller in a gloomy path. 
Whose close o'er-shaded end did scare his 

fancy 
With forms of hidden ill ; who, wending on 
With fearful steps, before his eyes beholds 
r til sudden burst a fair and wide expanse 
Of open country, rich in promis'd good. 
As one o'erwhelmed in the battle's shock, 
Who, all oppress'd and nuniber'd with the 

slain, 
Smother'd and lost, with sudden impulse 
strengthen'd. 



178 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Shakes the foul load of dead men from his 

back, 
And finds himself again standing erect, 
Unmaim'd and vigorous. As one who stood — 
But it may tire thee, with such ample scope 
To tell indeed how it doth fare with me. 
Eth. You truly are from a dark gloom re- 
stor'd 
To cheerful day ; and, if the passing shade 
Has well impress'd your mind, there lies be- 
fore you 
A prospect fair indeed. Ay, fairer far 
Than that the gloom obscured. 
Ethw. How sayest thou ^ 
Eth. Did not that seeming cloud of death 
obscure 
To your keen forecast eye tumultuous scenes 
Of war and strife, and conquest yet to come. 
Bought with your people's blood ? but now, 

my Ethwald, 
Your chasten'd mind, so rich in good resolves. 
Hath stretcli'd before it, future prospect fair, 
Such as a God might please. 
Ethw. How so, good Ethclbert .' 
Eth. And dost thou not perceive .' O see be- 
fore thee 
Thy native land, freed from the ills of war 
And hard oppressive power, a land of peace ! 
Where yellow fields unspoil'd, and pastures 

green. 
Mottled with herds and flocks, who crop se- 
cure 
Their native herbage, nor have ever known 
A stranger's stall, smile gladly. 
See, thro' its tufted alleys to heaven's roof 
The curling smoke of quiet dwellings rise ; 
Whose humble masters, with forgotten spear 
Hung on the webbed wail, and cheerful face 
la harvest fields embrown'd, do gaily talk 
Over their ev'ning meal, and bless king Eth- 
wald, 
The valiant yet the peaceful, whose wise rule, 
I'irm and rever'd, has brougiitthem better days 
Than e'er their fatliers knew. 

Ethw. A scene, indeed, fair and desirable ; 
But ah, how much confin'd ! Were it not work, 
A God befitting, with exerted strength. 
By one great etfort to enlarge its bounds. 
And spread the blessing wide .' 

Eth. {starting back from him.) 
Ha ! there it is ! that serpent bites thee still ! 
O spurn it, strangle it ! let it rise no more ! 
Scl. {laying his hand uffcctionatclij on Eth- 
wald's breast.) 
My dearest brother, let not such wild thoughts 
Again possess your mind ! 

Ethw. Go to ! go to ! {to Sel.) But, Ethel- 
bert, tliou'rt mad. {turnin<r angrily 
to Eth.) 
Eth. Not mad, my royal friend, but some- 
thing griev'd 
To see your restless mind still bent on that 
Which will to you no real glory bring. 
And to your hapless people many woes. 
Ethw. Tliou greatly errest from my mean- 
ing, friend. 
As truly as thyself 1 do regard 



My people's weal, and will employ tlie power 
Heaven trusts me with, for that important 

end. 
But were it not ignoble to confine 
In narrow bounds the blessed power of bless- 
ing. 
Lest, for a little space, the face of war 
Should frown upon us .'' He who will not give 
Some portion of his ease, his blood, his wealth, 
For others' good, is a poor frozen churl. 

Etk. Well, then again a simple warriourbe, 
And thine own ease, and blood, and treasure 

give : 
But whilst thou art a king, and would'st be- 
stow 
On people not thine own the blessed gift 
Of gentle rule, earn'd by the public force 
Of thine own subjects, thou dost give away 
That o'er the which tliou hast no right. 

Frown not : 
I will assert it, crown'd and royal Lord, 
Tho' to your ears full rude the sound may be- 
Ethw. Chafd Thane, be more restrain'd. 
Thou knowest well. 
That, as a warlike cliieftain, never yet 
The meanest of my soldiers grasp'd his spear 
To follow me constrain'd ; and as a King, 
Think'st thou I'll be less noble .'' 

Sd. Indeed, good Ethelbert, thou art too 
warm ; 
Thou dealest hardly with him. 

Eth. I know, tho' peace dilates the heart of 
man. 
And makes his stores increase; liis count'- 

nance smile. 
He is by nature form'd, like savage beasts, 
To take delight in war. 
'Tis a strong passion in his bosom lodged. 
For ends most wise, curb'd and restrain'd to 

be ; 
And they who for their own designs do take 
Advantage of his nature, act, in truth, 
Like cruel hinds who spirit the poor cock 
To rend and tear his fellow. 
O thou ! whom I so often in my arms, 
A bold and gen'rous boy have fondly press'd, 
And now do proudly call my sov'reign lord, 
Be not a cruel master ! O be gentle ! 
Spare Mercian blood ! Goodness and power 

do make 
Most meet companions. The great Lord of 

all. 
Before whose awful presence, short-while 

since. 
Thou dids't expect to stand, almighty is. 
Also most merciful ; 

And the bless'd Being he to earth did send 
To teach our soften'd hearts to call him Fa- 
ther, 
Most meekly did confide his heavenly power 
Unto the task assign'd him. Think of this. 
O ! dost thou listen to me .'' 

Ethic, {moved and softened.) 
Yes, good Ethelbert. 

Be thou more calm : we will consider of it. 
We should desire our people's good, and peace 
Makes them to flourish. We confess all this ; 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



179 



But circumstance oft takes away the power 
Of acting on it. Still our Western neighbours 
Are turbulent and bold; and, for the time, 
Tho' somewhat humbled, they again may rise 
And force us to the field. 

Scl. No, fear it not ! they are inclin'd to 
peace, 
Tidings I've learnt, sent by a trusty mes- 
senger, 
Who from Caernarvon is with wond'rous 

speed 
But just arriv'd: their valiant prince is dead. 
A sudden death has snatch'd him in his prime ; 
And a weak infant, under tutorage 
Of three contending chiefs of little weight, 
Now rules the state, whom, thou may'st well 

perceive, 
Can give thee no disturbance. 

Ethw. (eagerly, loith his eyes lightening up, 
and his whole frame agitated.) 
A trusty messenger has told thee this .'' 

send him to me quickly I still fair fortune 
Offers her favours freely. Send him quickly I 
Ere yet aware of my returning health, 
Five thousand men might without risk be led 
E'en to their castle walls. 

Eth. What, mean'st thou this ? 
Uprous'd again unto this dev'lish pitch .' 
Oh, it is horrid ! 

Ethw. (in great heat.) Be restrained, Thane. 
Eth. Be thou restrained, king. See how thou 
art. 
Thus feebly tott'ring on those wasted limbs I 
And would'st thou spoil the weak .-' (observing 
Ethw. loho staggers from being agi- 
tated beyond his strength.) 
Ethto. (pushing aicay Selred who supports 
him.) 

1 do not want thine aid : I'm well and vig'rous: 
My lieart beats strongly , and my blood is warm; 
Tho' there are those who spy my weakness 

out 
To shackle me withal. Ho, thou without I 

Enter his Attendant, and Ethw. taking hold 
of him walks across the stage; then turning 
about to Sel. and Eth. 
Brother, send quickly for your trusty mes- 
senger ; 
And so good day. Good morning. Thane of 
Sexford. (looking sternly to Ethel- 
bert.) 
Eth. Good morning, Mercia's king. 
[Exeunt by opposite sides, frowningly. 

Scene III. — a grand apartment with 

A CHAIR OF state. 

Enter Hexulf and ALWY.engaged in close con- 
versation. 
Mwy. (continuing to speak.) Distrust it 
not; 
The very honours and high exaltation 
Of Ethelbert, that did your zealous ire 
So much provoke, are now the very tools 
With which we'll work his ruin. 

Hex. But still proceed with caution ; gain 
the queen ; 



For she, from ev'ry hue of circumstance, 
Must be his enemy. 

Mwy. I have done that already. 
By counterfeiting Ethwald's signature 
Whilst in that still and deathlike state he lay, 
To hinder Ethelbert's rash treach'rous haste 
From setting Edward free, I have done that 
For which, tho' Ethwald thanks me, I must 

needs 
On bended knee, for courtly pardon sue. 
The queen I have address'd with humble suit 
My cause to plead with her great Lord, and 

she 
Her most magnificent and high protection 
Be of our party, e'en if on her mind 
No other motive press'd. 
Hex. I doubt it not, and yet I fear her 
spirit, 
Proud and aspiring, will desire to rule 
More than befits our purpose. 

Mioy. Fear it not. 
It is the shew and worship of high state 
That she delights in more than real power : 
She has more joy in stretching forth her hand 
And saying, "I command," than, in good 

truth. 
Seeing her will obey'd. 

Enter Queen with Dwina and Attendants. 

Hex. Saint Alban bless you, high and royal 
dame ! 
We are not here, in an intruding spirit. 
Before your royal presence. 

Qii. I thank you, good lord bishop, with 
your friend. 
And nothing doubt of your respect and duty. 
Micy. Thanks, gracious queen ! This good 
and holy man 
Thus far supports me in your royal favour, 
Which is the only rock that I would cling to, 
Willing to give me friendly countenance. 
Qm. You have done well, good Alwy, and 
have need 
Of thanks more than of pardon ; nevertheless, 
If any trouble light on thee for this, 
A royal hand shall be stretch'd forth to save 

you. 
Whom none in Mercia, whosoe'er they be, 
Will venture to oppose. I will protect thee. 
And have already much inclin'd the king 
To favour thee. 

Mwy. (kneeling and kissing her hand.) 
Receive my humble thanks, most honour'd 

queen ! 
My conscience tells me I have merited. 
Of you and of the king, no stern rebuke ; 
But that dark cunning Thane has many wiles 
To warp men's minds e'en from their proper 

good. 
He has attempted, or report speaks falsely, 
To lure king Ethwald to resign his crown. 
What may he not attempt ! it makes me 

shrink ! 
He trusts his treasons to no mortal men : 
Fiends meet him in his hall at dead of night, 
And are his counsellors. 

(^ueen. (holding up her hands.) 



180 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Protect us, heaven ! 

Hex. Saint Alban will protect you, gracious 

queen. 

Trust me, his love for pious Oswal's daughter 

Will guard you in the hour of danger. Hark .'' 

The king approaches, (flourish oftrujnpets.) 

Qti. Yes, at this hour he will receive in 

state 

The bold address of tliose seditious Thanes, 

Clain'ring for peace, whep fair occasion 

smiles, 
And beckons him to arm and follow her. 
Hex. We know it well ; of whoni 'f hane 
Ethelbert, 
In secret is the chief, although young Hereulf 
By him is tutor'd in the spokesman's office. 

Enter Ethwald, attended by many Thanes, 
and Officers of the Court, &c. 

Qu. (presenting Alwy toEthw.) My Lord, 
a humble culprit at your feet, 
Supported by my favour, craves forgiveness. 
(Alwy kneels, and Ethw. raises him gra- 
ciously.) 
Ethw. I grant his suit, supported by the 
favour 
Of that warm sense I wear within my breast 
Of his well meaning zeal, (looking contempt- 
uously at the Queen, wlio turns haughtily 
aicay.) 
But wherefore, Alwy, 
Didst thou not boldly come to rne at first 
And tell thy fault ? Might not thy former 

services 
Out-balance well a greater crime than this ? 
Mwy. I so, indeed, had done, but a shrewd 
Thane, 
Of mind revengeful and most penetrating. 
Teaches us caution in whate'er regards 
His deahngs with the slate. I fear the man. 
Ethw. And wherefore dost thou fear him i 
Mwy. (mijstrriously.) He has a cloudy brow, 
a stubborn gait ; 
His dark soul isslmt up from mortal man. 
And deeply broods upon its own conceits 
Of right and wrong. 

Hex. He has a soul black with foul atheism 
And heresies abominable. Nay, 
He has a tongue of such persuasive art 
That all men listen to him. 

Qm. ((Mgerly.) More than men : 
Dark spirits meet him at the midnight hour. 
And horrid converse hold. 
Ethio. No more, I pray you ! Ethelbert I 

know. 
Qm. Indeed, indeed, my Lord, you know 

him not ! 
Ethw. Be silent, wife, (turning to Hex. and 
Al.) 
My tried and faithful Alwy, 
And pious Hexulf, in my private closet 
We further will discourse on things of mo- 
ment, 
At more convenient time. 
The leagued Thanes advance. Retire, El- 
burga : 



Thou hast my leave. I gave thee no com- 
mand 
To join thy presence to this stern solemnity. 
Son female grace adorns the festive hall, 
And sheds a brighter lustre on high days 
Of pageant state ; but in an hour like this, 
Destin'|d foj: gravest audience, 'tis unmeet. 
Qm. What, is the queen an empty bauble, 
thep. 
To gild thy state withal ? 

Ethw. The queens of Mercia, first of Mer- 
cian dames. 
Still fair example give of meek obedience 
To their good Lords. This is their privilege. 
(seeing that she delays to go.) 
It is my will. A good day to your highness. 
Qu. (aside as she goesoff.) Be silent, wife ! 
Tills Mollo's son doth say 
Unto the royal offspring of a king. (Exit 
Q,\ieen, frowning angrily, and followed by 
Dwina and Attendants.) 
(iVte Thanes, who entered with Ethwald, and 
during his conversation with Alwy, «fec. had 
retired to the bottom of the stage, now come 
forward.) 

Ethw. Now wait we for those grave and 
sluggish chiefs. 
Who would this kingdom, fam'd for warlike 

Thanes, 
Change into mere provision-land to feed 
A dull unwarlike race. 

Micy. Ay, and our castles. 
Whose lofty walls are darken'd with the 

spoils 
Of glorious war, to barns and pinning folds. 
Where our brave hands, instead of sword and 

spear, 
The pruning knife and shepherd's staff must 
grasp. 
Hex. True ; sinking you, in such base toils 
unskill'd, 
Beneath the wiser carl. This is their wish. 
But heaven and our good saint will bring to 

nought 
Their wicked niachinations. 

Enter an Officer of the Castle. 
Off. Th' assembled Thanes, my Lord, at- 
tend without. 
Ethw. Well, let them enter. [Exit Off. 
Our stool beneatli us will not shake, I trust, 
Being so fenced round, (taking his scat and 
bowing courteously with a smiling 
countenance to the Cliiefs, &/-C. who 
range themselves necw him.) 
Enter several Thanes with Hereulf at their 
head, and presently afler followed by Ethel.. 

BERT. 

Her. (stretching out his hand with respectful 
dignity.) Our king and sire, in true and 
humble duty 
We come before you, earnestly entreating 
Your royal ear to our united voice. 

Ethw. Mine ear is ever open to the voice 
Of faithful duty. 
Her. We are all men who, in th' embattled 
field, 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



181 



Have by your side the front of danger brav- 
ed, 
With greater lack of prudence than of dar- 
ing; 
And have opposed our rough and scarred 

breasts 
To the fell push of war, with liberality 
Not yielding to the bravest of your Thanes, 
The sons of warlike sires. But we are men 
Who, in our cheerful halls, have also been 
Lords of the daily feast; where, round our 

boards. 
The hoary headed warriour, from the toil 
Of arms releas'd, with the cheer'd stranger 

smiled : 
Who in the humble dwellings of our hinds, 
Have seen a numerous and hardy race, 
Eating the bread of labour cheerfully. 
Dealt to them with no hard nor churlish 

hand. 
We, therefore, stand with graceful boldness 

forth. 
The advocates of those who wish for peace. 
Worn with our rude and long continued 

wars. 
Our native land wears now the altered face 
Of an uncultur'd wild. To her fair fields. 
With weeds and thriftless docks now shag- 
ged o'er. 
The aged grandsire, bent and past his toil. 
Who in the sunny nook had plac'd his seat 
And thought to toil no more, leads joyless 

forth 
His widow'd daughters and their orphan 

train. 
The master of a silent, cheerless band. 
The half-grown stripling, urged before his 

time 
To manhood's labour, steps, with feeble limbs 
And sallow cheek, around his unroof 'd cot. 
The mother on her last remaining son 
With fearful bodings looks. The cheerful 

sound 
Of whistling ploughmen, and the reaper's 

song, 
And the flail's lusty stroke is heard no more. 
The youth and manhood of our land are laid 
In the cold earth, and shall we think of war .'' 
O valiant Ethwald ! listen ,to the caJls 
Of gentle pity, in the brave most graceful. 
Nor, for the lust of more extended sway. 
Shed the last blood of Mercia. War is hon- 
ourable 
In those who do their native rights maintain ; 
In those whose swords an iron barrier are 
Between tlie lawless spoiler and the weak : 
But is in those who draw th' offensive blade 
For added power or gain, sordid and despica- 
ble 
As meanest office of the worldly churl. 
Ethw. Chiefs and assembled Thanes, I 
much commend 
The love you bear unto your native land. 
Shame to the son nurs'd on her gen'rous 

breast 
Who loves her not ! and be assur'd that I, 
Her reared child, her soldier and her king, 



In true and warm affection yield to none 
Of all who have upon her turfy lap 
Thus infant gambol held. To you her weal 
Is gain and pleasure ; glory 'tis to me. 
To you lier misery is loss and sorrow ; 
To ine disgrace and shame. Of this be sat- 
isfied ; 
I feel her sacred claims, ^vhich these high 

ensigns 
Have fastened on ,n?e, and I will fulfil them : 
But for the course and manner of perform- 
ance. 
Be that unto the royal wisdom left, 
Strengthen'd by those appointed by th« stale 
To aid and counsel it. Ye have our leave. 
With all respect and favour to retire. 

Her. We will retire, king Ethwald, as be- 
comes 
Free, independent Thanes, who do of right 
Approach or quit at will the royal presence. 
And lacking no permission. 
Mwxj. What, all so valiant in this princely 
hall, 
Ye who would shrink from the fair field of 

war. 
Where soldiers should be bold .' 

Her. {laying his hand on his sword.) 
Thou ly'st, mean boastful hireling ,of tliy 

Lord, 
And shall be punish'd for it. 

First Th. {of Ethwald's side.) 
And dar'stthou threaten, mouth of bold sedi- 
tion .' 
We will maintain liis words. {Draws his 
sicord, and all the Thanes on the 
King's side do the same. Hereulf a?i<Z 
the Thanes of his side also draw 
t/ieir swords.) 
First Th. {of Hereulfs side.) 
Come on, base trockers of your country's 
blood. 
First Th. {of Ethwald's side.) 
Have at ye, rebel cowards ! 

Ethw. {rising from his scat, and standing 
between the tico parties in a command- 
ing posture.) 
I do command you : peace and silence, chiefs I 
He who with word or threat'ning gesture 

dares 
The presence of his king again oulrnr^e, 
I put without th.e covert of the law. 
And on the instant punish- {they ail pnt up 
their sicor,ds, and Ethwald, a/'ier look- 
ing round him for some moments with 
commanding sternness, walks off 
majestically, followed by his Thanes.) 
Ethelbert. {casting up his eyes to heaven as 
he turns to follow Hereulf and his 
party.) 
Ah, Mercia, Mercia ! on red fields of carnage 
Bleed thy remaining sons, and carrion birds 
Tear the cold limbs that should have tnrn'd 
thy soil. [ExEDNT the two different parties 
by opposite sides. 



182 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. a small cavern in which 
IS discovered a wizard, sitting by 

A FIRE OF EMBERS, BAKING HIS SCAN- 
TY MEAL OP PARCHED CORN, AND 
COUNTING OUT SOME MONEY, FROM A 
bag; a BOOK AND OTHER THINGS BE- 
LONGING TO HIS ART ARE STREWED 
NEAR HIM ON THE GROUND. 

Wiz. (alone.) Thanks to the restless soul 

of Mollo's son ! 
Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoard- 
ed coin 
Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate 
Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel 
Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve. 
With muffled face, to learn her warriour's 

doom, 
Lie in strange fellowships so doth misfortune 
Make strange acquaintance meet. 

Enter a Scout. 
Brother, thou com'st in haste ; what news, I 

pray .' 
Scout. Put up thy book, and bag, and wiz- 
ard's wand, 
This is no time for witchery and wiles. 
Thy cave, I trow, will soon be filled with 

those, 
Who are by present ills too roughly shent 
To look thro' vision'd spells on those to come. 
IViz. What thou would'st tell me, tell in 

plainer words. 
Scout. Well, plainly then, Ethwald, who 

thought full surely 
The British in their weak divided state, 
To the first onset of his arms would yield 
Their ill defended towers, has found them 

strengthen 'd 
With aid from Wessex, and unwillingly 
Led back with cautious skill the Mercian 

troops ; 
Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought. 
To follow him into our open plains. 
Where they must nei>ds with least advantage 

fight. 
JViz. Who told thee this ? 
Scout. Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely 

three miles off. 
The armies, at this moment, are engaged 
In bloody battle. On my way I met 
A crowd of helpless women, from their homes 
Who fly with terror, each upon her back 
Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece 
Of household goods, snatch'd up in haste. I 

hear 
Their crowding steps e'en now within your 

cave : 
They follow close behind. 
(Enter a crowd of Wo mkn, young and old, some 
leading children and carrying infants on their 
backs or in their arms, others carrying bun- 
dles and pieces of household stuff.) 
fViz. Who are ye, wretched women. 
Who, all so pale and haggard bear along 



Those hapless infants, and those seeming 

wrecks, 
From desolation saved .' What do you want ? 
First Worn. Nought but the friendly shelter 
of your cave, 
For now our house, or home, or blazing 

hearth. 
Good Wizard, we have none. 

Wiz. And are the armies then so near your 

dwellings .' 
First Worn. Ay, round them, in them the 
loud battle clangs. 
Within our very walls fierce spearman push, 
And weapon'd warriors cross their clashing 
blades. 
Sec. Worn. Ah woe is me ! our warm and 
cheerful hearths, 
And rushed floors whereon our cliildren 

play'd. 
Are now the bloody lair of dying men. 

Old Worn. Ah woe is me ! those yellow 
thatch'd roofs, 
Which I have seen these sixty years and ten, 
Smoking so sweetly 'midst our tufted thorns, 
And the turFd graves wherein our fathers 
sleep ! 
Young Worn. Ah woe is me I my little help- 
less babes ! 
Now must some mossy rock or shading tree 
Be your cold home and the wild haws your 

food. 
No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot 
Shall now, returning from his daily toil. 
Your father cheer ! if that, if that indeed 
Ye have a father still, (bursting into tears.) 
Third Worn. Alack, alack ! of all my good- 
ly stuflT 
I've saved but only this ! my winter's webs 
And all the stores that I so dearly saved ! 
I thought to have them to my dying day ! 

Enter a Young Man leading in an Idiot. 

Young Worn, (naming up to him.) 
Ah, my dear Swithick ! art thou safe indeed.'' 
Why didst thou leave me ? 

Young Man. To save our idiot brother, 
see'st thou here .' 
I could not leave l\im in that pityless broil. 

Young Worn. Well hast thou done ! poor 
helpless Balderkin ! 
We've fed thee long, unweeting of our care. 
And in our little dwelling still thou'st held 
The warmest nook ; and, whcresoe'er we be. 
So shalt thou still, albeit thou know'st it not. 

Enter Man carrying an Old Man on his back. 

Young Man. And see liere, too, our neigh- 
bour Edwin comes. 

Bearing his bed-rid father on his back. 

Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged 
neighbour .' 

Cheer up again ! thou shalt be shelter'd still ; 

The wizard has receiv'd us. 
Wiz. True, good folks ; 

I wish my means were better for your sakes. 

But we are crowded here ; that winding pas- 
sage 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



183 



Leads us into an inner cave full wide, 
Where we may take our room and freely 

breathe ; 
Come let us enter there. 

l^XEViiT , all following the Wizard into the 

inner cave. 

Scene II. a field of battle strewed 

WITH SLAIN, AND SOME PEOPLE SEEN 
UPON THE BACK GROUND SEARCHING 
AMONGST THE DEAD BODIES. 

Enter Hereulf and Ethelbert. 

Her. {stopping short and holding up his 

hands.) 
Good mercy ! see what a bloody price 
Ethwald this doubtful victory lias purchased, 
That in the lofty height to which he climbs 
A little step will be of small advantage. 
Eth. (not attending to him, and after gazing 

for some time on the field.) 
So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun. 
Rose cheerily and girt your armour on 
With all the vigour, and capacity, 
And comeliness of strong and youthful men. 
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane. 
With grizzled pates, from mates, whose 

withered hands 
For some good thirty years had smooth'd your 

couch : 
Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth 
Did give you the similitude of men 
Ere your fond mothers ceas'd to tend you 

still, 
As nurselings of their care, ye lie together ! 
Alas ! alas ! and many now there be. 
Smiling and crowing on their mother's breast, 
Twining with all their little infant ways. 
Around her hopeful heart, who shall, like 

these. 
Be laid i' the dust. 

Her. Ay, so it needs must be, since Mollo's 

son 
Thinks Mercia all too strait for his proud 

sway. 
But here comes those who search amongst 

the dead 
For their lost friends ; retire, and let us mark 

them. {they withdraw to one side.) 

Enter Two Cairls, meeting a Third, who 
enters by the opposite side. 

First Cairl. {to Third.) Thou hast been 

o'er the field ? 
Third Cairl. I liave, good friend. 
Sec. Cairl. Thou hast seen a rueful sight. 
Third Cairl. Yes, I have seen that which 
no other sight 
Can from my fancy wear. Oh ! there be some 
Whose writhed features, fix'd in all the 

strength 
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you, 

With their dead eyes half open'd. 

And there be some, stuck thro' withbristhng 

darts. 
Whose clench'd hands have torn the pebbles 
up; 



Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very 

sand. 
Nay, some I've seen among those bloody 

heaps. 
Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men, 
Who in convulsive motion yet retain 
Some shreds of life more horrible than death : 
I've heard their groans, oh, oh ! 
{A voice from the ground.) Baldwick ! 

Third Cairl. What voice is that ? it comes 

from some one near. 
First Cairl. See, yon stretch'd body moves 
its bloody hand : 
It must be him. 
{Voice again.) Baldwick! 

Third Cairl. {going up to the body from 
whence the voice came.) 
Who art thou, wretched man ? I know thee 
not. 
Voice. Ah, but thou dost ! I have sat by thy 
fire. 
And heard thy merry tales, and shar'd thy 
meal. 
Third Cairl. Good holy saints ! and art 
thou Athelbald .= 
Woe ! woe is me to see thee in such case ! 
What shall I do for thee .' 

Voice. If thou hast any love or mercy in 
thee, 
Turn me upon my face that I may die ; 
For lying thus, see'st thou this flooded gash .' 
The glutting blood so bolsters up my life 
I cannot die. 

Third Cairl. I will, good Athelbald. Alack 
the day ! 
That I should do for thee so sad a service ! 

{turiisthe soldier on his face.) 

Voice.! thank thee, friend, farewell! (dies.) 

Third Cairl. Farewell ! farewell ! a merry 

soul thou wert, 

And sweet thy ploughman's whistle in our 

fields. 

Sec. Cair. (starting with horrour.) Good 

heaven furefend ! it moves ! 
First Cairl. What dost thou see .' 
Sec. Cairl. Look on that bloody corse, so 
smear'd and mangled, 
That it has lost all form of what it was ; 
It moves ! it moves ! there is life in it still. 
First Cairl. Methought it spoke, but faint 

and low the sound. 
Third Cairl. Ha ! didst thou hear a voice .' 
we'll go to it. 
Who art tliou .' Oh ! who art thou .' {to a 
fallen icarriour, who makes signs to 
him to pull something from his breast.) 
Yes, from thy breast ; I understand the sign. 
{^lulling out a hand, or 'kerchief from his breast.) 
It is some maiden's pledge. 

Fallen Warriour. {making signs.) Upon 
mine arm, 
I pray thee, on mine arm. 

Third. Cairl. I'll do it, but thy wounds are 

past all binding. 
Warriour. She who will search for me doth 
know this sien. 



184 



ETHWAU):A TRAGEDY. 



Tlurd Cairl. Alack, alack: he thinks of 
some sad maid ! 
A rueful sight she'll see ! He moves again : 
Heaven grant him peace ! I'd give a goodly 

sum 
To see thee dead, poor wretch ! 

Enter a Woman waiHng and wringing her hands. 

Sec. Cairl. Ha ! who comes wailing here r 

Third Cairl. Some wretched u»other wh6 
has lost her son : 
I met her searching 'midst the farther dead, 
And heard her piteous moan. 

Mother. I rear'd him like a little playful kid, 
And ever by my side, v/here'er 1 went. 
He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween', 
His little arms did strain their growing 

strength 
To bear my burden. Ay, and long before 
He had unto a stripling's height attain'd, 
He ever would my widow's cause maintain 
With all the steady boldness of a man. 
I was no widow then. 

Sec. Cairl. Be comforted, good mother. 

Mother. V/hat say'st thou to me ? know'st 
thou where he lies .' 
If thou hast kindness in thee, tell me truly ; 
For dead or living still he is mine all, 
And lot me have him. 

Third Cairl. (aside to Second.) Lead her 

away, good friend ; I know her now. 

Her boy is lying with the farther dead. 

Like a fell'd sapling ; lead her from the field. 

[Exeunt Mother and Sec Ca;irl. 

First Cairl. But who comes now, with such 
distracted gait. 
Tossing her snowy arms unto the wind. 
And gazing wildly o'er each mangled corse .' 

Enter a Young Woman, searching distractedly 
amongst the dead. 

Young Worn. No, no ! thou art not here ! 

thou art not here ! 
Ycl, ifthou be like these, I shall not know thee. 
Oh I if they have so gash'd thee o'er with 

wounds. 
And marr'd tliy comely form ! I'll not believe 

it. 
Until these very eyes have seen thee dead. 
These very hands have press'd on thy cold 

heart, 
I'll not believe it. 

Third Cairl. Ah, gentle maiden ! many a 

maiden's love. 
And many a goodly man lies on this field. 
Young Worn. I know, too true it is, but 

none like him. 
Liest thou , indeed, amongst those grisly heaps.' 
O thou, who ever v^^crt of all most fair I 
If heaven hath sufFer'd this, amen, amen ! 
Whilst I have strength to crawl upon the 

earth, 

I'll search thee out, and be, where'er thou art. 

Thy mated love, e'en with the grisly dead. 

(Searching again among the dead, she per- 

reives the band round the arm of the fallen 

Warriour, and uttering a loud shriek falls 



senseless upon the ground. The Cairls run 
to her assistance, with Ethelbert and Hereulf, 
2cho come forwardfrom the place they had 
withdrawn to; YiexenM clenching his hand 
and muttering curses upon Mollo's son, as he 
crosses the stage. The scene closes.) 

Scene III. a c.\stle not r\tt from 

THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

Enter Ethwald and Atwy, talking as they 
enter. 

Ethw. (calling angrily to some one off the 
stage.) 
And see they dt) not linger on the road, 
With laggard steps; I will brook no delay. 
(to Jllwy.) Why, even my very messengers, 

of late, 
Slothful and sleepy footed have become : 
They too must cross my will, (throws him- 
self upon a seat, and sits for some time 
silent and gloomy.) 
Jlhcy. Your highness seems disturb'd. 
What tho' your arms, amidst those British 

hills, 
Have not, as they were wont, victorious 

prov'd. 
And home retreating, even on your own soil, 
You've fought a doubtful battle : luckless 

turns 
Will often cross the lot of greatest kings : 
Let it not so o'ercome your nobte spirit. 
Ethic. Thinkest thou it o'ercomes me -* 
(rising up proudly.) 
Thou judgest poorly. I am form'd to yield 
To no opposed' pressure, nor my purpose 
With crossing chance or circumstance to 

change. 
I, in my march to this attained height, 
Have moved still with an advancing step' 
Direct and onward. 
But now the mountain's side more rugged 

grows. 
And he, who would the cloudy summit gain, 
Must oft into its cragged rents descend, 
The higher but to mount. 
Mwy. Or rather say, my Lord, that havirrg 
gain'd 
Its cloudy summit, there you must contend 
With the rude tempests that do beat upon it. 

Ethw. (smiling contemptuously.) 
Is this thy fancy ? are thy thoughts of Eth- 
wald 
So poorly limited, that thou dost think 
He has already gain'd his grandeur's height .' 
Know that the lofty point which oft appears, 
To him who stands beneath the mountain's 

top. 
Is, to the daring climber wlio hath reach'd it. 
Only a breathing place, from whence he sees 
Its real summit, bright and heaven illum'd, 
Towerinw majestic, grand, above him far 
As is the lofty spot on which he stands 
To the dull plain below. 
The British once subdued, Northumberland, 
Thou seest well, could not withstand our 
arms. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



185 



Ct too must fail ; and with sucli added strengtli, 
Wliat might not be acliiev'd ? Ay, by tiiis 

arm ! 
All that the mind suggests, even England's 

crown, 
United and entire. Thou gazest on me. 
I know full well the state is much exhausted 
Of men and means : and those cui'sed Mer- 
cian women 
To cross my purposes, with hag-like spite, 
Do nought but females bear. But I will on- 
ward. 
Still conscious of its lofty destination. 
My spirit swells, and will not be subdued. 
Mwij. 1, chidden, bow, and yield with ad- 
miration 
Unto the noble grandeur of your thoughts. 
But lowering clouds arise ; events are ad- 
verse : 
Subdue your secret enemies at home, 
And reign securely o'er the ample realm 
You have so bravely wcm. 

Etkw. What ! have I thro' the iron fields 
of war 
Proudly before th' admiring gaze of men. 
Unto this point with giant steps held on. 
Now to become a dwarf.'' Have I this crown 
In bloody battles won, mocking at death. 
To wear it now as those to whom it comes 
By dull and leaden-paced inheritance .' 
As the dead shepherd's scrip and knotted 

crook 
Go to his milk-fed son ^ Like those dull ima- 
ges. 
On whose calm, tamed brows the faint im- 
pression 
Of far preceding heroes faintly rests. 
As the weak colours of a fading rainbow 
On a spent cloud .'' 
I'd rather in the centre of the earth 
Inclosed be, to dig my upward way 
To the far distant light, than stay me thus, 
And, looking round upon my bounded state. 
Say, this is all. No ; lower it as it may, 
I'll to the bold aspirings of my mind 
Still steady prove, whilst that around my 

standard 
Harness doth clatter, or a falchion gleam. 
Almy. What boot the bold aspirings of the 
great. 
When secret foes beneath his footsteps work 
Their treach'rous mine ^ 

Fthw. Ay, thou before hast hinted of such 

foes. 
Ahoy. Fear for your safety, king, may make 
me err : 
But these combined chiefs, it is full plain. 
Under the mask of zeal for public good, 
Do court with many wiles your people's 

heajrts ; 
Breathing into their ears the praise of peace. 
Yea, and of peaceful kings. The thralled 

Edward, 
Whose prison-tower stands distant from this 
castle 

But scarce a league 

Ethw. (starting.) Is it so near us ? 
23 



Mwy. It is, my Lord. 
Nor is he so forgotten in the land. 
But that he still serves their dark purpose well. 
An easy gentle prince — so brave, yet peace- 
ful— 
With such impressions clogg'd,your soldiers 

And therefore 'tis that with a feeble foe 
Ethwald fights doubtful battles. 
Ethw. Thou art convinc'd of tliis ? 
jihcy. Most perfectly. 
Ethic, I too have had such thoughts, and 

have repress'd thera. 
Mwy. Did not those base petitioners for 
peace 
Withhold their gather'd forces, till beset 
On ev'ry side they saw your little army, 
Already much diminish'd.'' then came they, 
Like heaven commission'd saviours,to your aid, 
And drew unto themselves the praise of all. 
This plainly speaks, your glory with disgrace 
They fain would dash to set their idol up ; 
For well they think, beneath the gentle Ed- 
ward 
To lord it proudly, and his gen'rous nature 
Has won their love and pity. Etheibert, 
Now that such fair occasion offers to them, 
The prisoner's escape may well effect : 
He lacks not means. 

Ethw. (after a thoughtful pause.) 
Didst thou not say, that castle's foggy air, 
And walls with dampness coated, to young 

blood . 

Are hostile and creative of disease ? 
In close confinement he has been full long ; 
Is there no change upon him ? 

Alwy. Some hardy natures will resist all 
change. 
(.4 long pause, in which Ethwald seems 
thoughtful and disturbed.) 
Ethw. (abruptly.) 
Once in the roving fantasies of night 
Methought I plew him. 

Mwy. Dreams, as some think, oft shew us 
things to come. 
(Another long pause, in which Ethwald seems 
greatly disturbed, and stands fixed to one 
sfot, till catching Alwy's eye fastened sted- 
fastly upon his, he turns from- him abruptly, 
and walks to the bottom of the stage with has- 
ty strides. Going aftericards to the door, 
he turns suddenly round to Alwy just as he 
is about to go out.) 

Ethw. What Thane was he, who, in a cav- 
ern'd vault. 
His next of kin so long imprison'd kept, 
Whilst on his lands he lived .' 
Micy. Yes, Ruthal's Thane he was; but 
dearly he 
The dark contrivance rued ; fortune at last 
The weary thrall reliev'd, and ruin'd him. 
Ethw. (agitated.) Go where thy duty calls 
thee : I will in : 
My head feels strangely ; I have need of rest. 

[Exit. 
Alwy. (looking after him with a ynalicious 
satisfaction.) 



186 



ETHWALD t A TRAGEDY. 



Ay, dark perturbed thoughts will be thy rest. 
I see the busy workings of thy mind. 
The gentle Edward has not long to mourn 
His earthly thraldom. I have done my task, 
And soon shall be secure ; for whilst he lives, 
And Ethelbert, who hates my artful rise, 
I live in jeopardy. [Exit. 

Scene IV. — a small, dark passage. 

Enter Ethwai.d with a lamp in his hand ; en- 
ter at the same time, by the opposite side, a 
domestic Officer : they both start back on 
seeing one another. 

Ethw. Who art thou ? 
Offi. Baldwin, my Lord. But mercy on 
my sight ! 
Your face is strangely alter'd. At this hour 
Awake, and wand'ring thus. — Have you seen 
aught .' 
Ethw. No, nothing. Knows't thou which 
is Alwy's chamber .-" 
1 would not wake my grooms. 

Offi. It is that farther door ; I'll lead you 

to it. (pointing off the stage.) 

Ethw. No, friend, I'll go myself. Good 
rest to thee. [Exednt. 

Scene V. — a small dark chamber, 

WITH A LOW COUCH NEAR THE FRONT 
OF THE STAGE, ON WHICH ALWY IS 
DISCOVERED ASLEEP. 

Enter Ethwald with a haggard countenance, 
bearing a lamp. 

Ethw. He sleeps — I hear him breathe — he 

soundly sleeps. 
Seems not this circumstance to check my 

purpose, 
And bid me still to pause ? (setting down the 

lamp.) 
But wherefore pause .' 
This deed must be, for, like a scared thief 
Who starts and trembles o'er his grasped store 
At ev'ry breezy whisper of the night, 
I now must wear this crown, which I have 

bought 
With brave men's blood, in fields of battle 

shed. 
Ah ! would that all it cost had there been 

shed ! 
This deed must be ; for, like a haggard ghost 
His image haunts me wheresoe'er 1 move, 
And will not let me rest. 
His love hath been to me my bosom's sting ; 
His gen'rous trust hath gnaw'd me like a 

worm. 
Oh ! would a sweltring snake had wreath'd my 

neck 
When first his arms embrac'd me ! 
He is by fortune made my bane, my curse. 
And, were he gentle as the breast of love, 
1 needs must crush him. 
Prison'd or free, where'er he breathes, lives 

one 
Whom Ethwald fears. Alas ! this thing must 

be, 



From th' imaged form of which I still have 

shrunk, 
And started back as from my fancy's fiend. 
The dark and silent cope of night is o'er us, 
When vision'd horrours, thro' perturbed 

sleep. 
Harden to deedsof blood the dreamer's breast; 
When from the nether world fell demons rise 
To guide with lurid flames the murd'rer's 

way : 
I'll wake him now ; should morning dawn 

upon me. 
My soul again might from its purpose swerve, 
(in a loud energetic voice.) 
Alwy, awake ! Sleepest thoij P sleepest thou, 

Alwy ? 
(Alwy wakes.) Nay, rouse thyself, and be 

thou fully waking. 
What I would say must have thy mind's full 

bent ; 
Must not be spoken to a drowsy ear. 

Mwij. (rising quickly.) I fully am awake ; 

1 hear, I see. 
As in the noon of day. 

Ethic. Nay, but thou dost not. 
Thy garish eye looks wildly on the light, 
Like a strange visitor. 
Mwy. So do the ey^gs of one pent in the 

dark. 
When sudden light breaks on them, tho' he 

slept not. 
But why, my Lord, at this untimely hour 
Are you awake, and come to seek me here.' 
Ethw. Alwy, I cannot sleep : my mind is 

toss'd 
With many warring thoughts. I am push'c} 

on 
To do the very act from which my soul 
Has still held back : fate doth compel me to it. 
Mwy. Being your fate, who may its pow- 
er resist .'' 
Ethw. E'en call it so, for it,in truth, must be. 
Know'st thou one who would do a ruthless 

deed, 
And do it pitifully .'' 
Mwy. He who will do it surest does it 

best; 
And he who surely strikes, strikes quickly 

too. 
And therefore pitifully strikes. I know 
A brawny ruffian, whose firm clenched gripe 
No struggles can unlock ; whose lifted dag- 
ger, 
True to its aim, gives not a second stroke ! 
Ethw. (covering his face hastily.) Oh must 

it needs be so ? 
(catching Alwy eagerly by the arm.) But 

hark thee well ; 
I will have no foul butchery done upon hira. 
Mwy. It shall be done, e'en to the smallest 

tittle. 
As you yourself shall order. 

Ethw. Nay, nay ! do thou contrive the 

fashion of it, 
I've done enough. 

Micy. But good, my Lord ! cast it not from 

you thus : 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



Iff? 



There must be warrant and authority 
For such a deed, and strong protection too; 
Ethw. Well, well, thou hast it all; thou 

hast my word. 
•Jllwy. Ay, but the murder'd corse must 
be inspected, 
That no deceit be fear'd, nor after doubts ; 
Nor bold impostors rising in the North, 
Protected by yonr treach'rous Thanes, and 

plum'd, 
To scare you afterwards with Edwaid's 
name. 
Ethw. Have not thine eyes on bloody death 
oft look'd > 
Do it thyself. 
Mwy. If you, my Lord, will put this trust 
in me. 
Swear that when after-rumours shall arise. 
As like there may, yoilr faith will be unshak- 
en. 
Ethw. Yes ; I will truly trust thee — {ve- 
hemently^ after a shortpaiise.) 
No, I will not ! 

I'll trust to no man's vision but mine own. 
Is the moon dark to-night ^ 
Mwy. It is, an please you. 
Ethw. And will be so to-morrow .'' 
Jllwy. Yes, my Lord. 

Ethw. When all is still'd in sleep 1 hear 

a noise. 
Mtcy. Regard it not, it is the whisp'ring 
winds 
Along those pillar'd walls. 

Ethw. It is a strange sound, tho'. Come 
to my chamber, 
I will not here remain : come to my cham- 
ber. 
And do not leave me till the morning break. 
I am a wretched man ! [Exeunt. 



ACT III 



Scene I. A gloomy Faulted apart- 
ment IN AN OLD CASTLE, WITH NO 
WINDOWS TO IT, AND A FEEBLE LIGHT 
BURNING IN ONE CORNER* 

Enter Edward from a dark recess near the bot- 
tom of the stage, with slow pensive steps, fre- 
quently stopping as he advances, and remain- 
ing for some time in a thoughtful posture. 

Ed. Doth the bright sun from the high 

arch of heaven. 
In all his beauteous robes of flecker'd clouds. 
And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing 

flames. 
And softly varied shades, look gloriously .'' 
Do the green woods dance to the wind ? the 

lakes 
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light .' 
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells 
Send winding up to heaven their curling 

smoke 
On the soft morning air ? 



Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures 

bound 
In antic happiness .-" and mazy birds 
Wing the mid air in lightly skiriiming bands ? 
Ay, all this is ; all this men do behold ; 
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, 
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear 
The crowing of the cock so near my walls, 
And sadly think how small a space divides 

me 
From all this fair creation. 
From the wide spreading bounds of beauteous 

nature 
I am alone shut out ; I am forgotten. 
Peace, peace ! hfe who regards the poorest 

worm 
Still cares for me, albeit he shends me sorely. 
This hath its end. Perhaps, small as these 

walls, 
A bound unseen divides my dreary state 
From a more bfeauteous world : that world of 

souls, 
Fear'd and desir'd by all ; a veil unseen 
Which soon shall be withdrawn. (Casts up 
his eyes to heaven, and turning, walks 
silently to the bottom of the stage, then 
advancing again to the front.) 
The air feels chill; methinks it should be 

night. 
I'll lay me down: perchance kind sleep will 

come. 
And open to my view an inward world 
Of gairish fantasies, from which nor walls, 
Nor bars, nor tyrant's power can shut me 

out. 
(He wraps himself in a cloak, and lies down.) 

Enter a Ruffian, stealing up softly to him as 
supposing him asleep. Edward, hearing him, 
uncovers his face, and then starts up immedi- 
ately. 

Ed. What art thou .' 
Or man or sprite .'' Thou lookest wond'rous 

stern : 
What dost thou want ? Com'st thou to mur- 
der mc .' 
Ruff. Yes, I am come to do mine office on 
thee ; 
Thy life is wretched, and my stroke is sure. 

Ed. Thou sayest true ; yet, wretched as it is, 
It is my life, and I will grapple for it. 

Ruff. Full vainly wilt thou strive, for think- 
est thou 
We enter walls like tiiese, with changeling 

hearts, 
To leave our work undone .' 

Ed. We, sayest thou ? 
There are more of you then ? 

Ruff. Ay, ay, there are enow to make it sure; 
But, if thou wilt be quiet, I'll do't myself. 
Mine arm is strong ; I'll give no second stroke; 
And all escape is hopeless. 

Ed. What, thinkest thou I'll calmly stretch 
my neck 
Until thou butch'rest me .'' 
No, by good heaven ! I'll grapple with thee 
still, 



188 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



And die with my blood liot 1 (putting him- 
self in a posture of defence.) 
Ruff. Well, since thou'lt have it so, thou 
soon shalt see 
If that my mates be lovelier than myself. 

[Exit. 

Ed. O that I still in some dark cell could 

rest, 

And wait the death of nature ! (looking 

icildhj round upon the roof and walls 

of the vault.) 

Nor stone, nor club, nor beam to serve my 

need ! 
Out from the walls, ye flints, and fill my grasp ! 
Nought ! nought ! Is there not yet within this 

nook 
Some bar or harden'd brand that I may clutch .' 
[Exit hastily into the dark recess, and isfol- 
loiced immediately by two Ruffians, icho en- 
ter by the opposite side, and cross the stage 
after him. 

Scene II. — ax apartment adjoining 

TO THE FORMER, WITH A DOOR LEAD- 
ING TO IT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE 
STAGE. 

Enter Alwy with a stern anxious face, and list- 
ens at the door ; then enter, by the opposite 
side, Ethwald with a very haggard counte- 
nance. 

Ethto. Dost thou hear aught .' 
Mwy. No, nothing. 
EthiD. But thou dost: 
Is it not done .'' 

Mwy. I hope it is, my Lord. 
Ethw. Thou doubtest, then. — It is long past 
the hour 
That should have lapp'd it. Hark ! I hear a 
noise. 
{Ji noise heard witliin of people struggling.) 
Mwy. They're dealing with him now. They 

struggle hard. 
Ethw. {turning away with horrour and put- 
ting his hands upon his ears.) 
Ha ! are we then so near it .' This is horrid ! 
(after a pause.) 
Is it not done yet .■' Dost thou Jiear them still ? 
Mwy. I hear them still : they struggle hard- 
er now. 
(The noise within heard more distinctly.) 
Ethw. By hell's dark host, thy fiends are 
weak of arm. 
And cannot do their task ! He will break 

forth 
With all the bloody work half done upon him ! 
{running furiously to the door, and then shud- 
dering, and turning away from it.) 
No, no, I cannot go ! do thou go in. 
And give thy strength. Let him be stiil'd i' 
the instant ! 

(A noise heard within of otic falling.) 
MwTf. There's no need now. Did you not 
hear him fall ? 
(Ji groan heard within.) And that groan, too .-' 

List, list ! the deed is done. 
(They loth retire from the door, and Ethw. 



leaning his back against the icall, looks sted- 
fastly toioards it, in .silent cipcclation, whilst 
it is seen to open slowly a little waij, then 
shut, then ojien again, toithout any one ap- 
pearing.) 

Ethw. What may this mean ? This pause 
is horrible : 
Will they or enter quickly, or forbear ! 
Enter First Ruffian, with his hands and clothes 
bloody, and all his hair and dress in disorder, 
like one who has been struggling hard. Enter 
soon after him Sec. Ruffian in a similar 
plight. 

Alwy. (eagerly.) Ye've done it : is he dead .'* 
First Rvff. He is still'd now,but with such 
horrid strength 
He grappled with us ! we have had fell work. 
Mwy. Then let us see the body. 
First Ruf Yes, enter if it please ye. 
Mviy. Be pleas'd, my Lord — (to Ethw.) 
Ethw. Pray thee be satisfied : I cannot go. 
Mwy. (to the RuflSans.) Bring ye the body 
hither. [Exeunt Ruffians. 

(A silent pause. Re-enter Ruffians bearing 
the body, and laying it down before Ethw.) 
Lool? here, my Lord, and be well satisfied : 
It is his very face, tho' somewhat changed 
With long confinement in these sickly damps. 
And the convulsive throes of violent death. 
Ethw. (first shrinking from it icith horror, 
then commanding himself, and looking 
uponitfor some time stedfastiy.) 
Yes, changed indeed ! and yet I know it well. 
Ah ! changed indeed ! Much he must needs 

have sutfer'd 
In his lone prison-house. Thou bruised flow- 
er ! 
And hast thou struggled all so bravely too 
For thy most wretched life .-' Base, bloody 

work ! 
Remove it from my sight, (turning hastil y 
from it.) 
Alwy. What farther orders would you give 

these men ? 
Ethw. Away ! speak to me not ! thou'st 
made me curs'd ! 
Would all the realm of Mercia I had lost. 
Ere it had come to this ! 
Once in the battle's heat I saved his life. 
And he did bless me for it. (beating his 
forehead distractedly.) 
Alwy. Nay, my good Lord, be not so keen- 
ly moved. 
Where shall we lay the body .' 

Ethw. Thou and those fiends do with it as 
ye will : 
It is a damned work I [Exit hastily. 

Alwy. (to First Ruf) Come thou with me. 
(to Sec. Ruf) 
We will return anon ; 

Meanwhile remain thou here and watch the 
corpse. 

(Exeunt Alwy and First Ruffian. 
Sec. Ruf. (alone.) Watch it ! I would not 
watch it here alone 
. For all my Rutfian's hire, (tliroios a coarse 
cloth over the body, and exit hastily.) 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



189 



SCEJVE III. A SAXON HALL IN THE FOR- 
MER CASTLE. 

Enter Elb. and DwiNA, talking earnestly as 
they enter. 

Elb. But didst thou truly question ev'ry 

groom, 
And the stern keeper of that postern gate ? 
Dwi. I have, but no one knew that he is 

absent. 
'Twas dark night v/hen the king went forth, 

and Alwy 
Alone was with him. This is all I know. 
Elb. Thus secretly, at night ! — Sexford's 

castle 
Is not far distant. — That distracted maid — 
If this be so, by the true royal blood 
That fills my veins, I'll be reveng'd ! What 

raean'stthou.' {seeing Dwina shake 

her head piteoushj. 
Dwi. Alas, you need not fear : far distant 

stand 
The towers of Ethelbert ; and that poor maid 
With the quiet dead has found at last her 

rest. 
Elb. And is't not well ? Why dost thou 

shake thy head, 
As tho' thou told'st sad news .? — Yet what 

avails it .' 
I, ne'ertheless, must be a humble mate, 
With scarcely e'en the semblance of a queen. 
And bow my head whilst Mollo's son doth 

say, 
" Be silent, wife." — Shall I endure all this.? 

Edward ! gentle Ethling ! thou who once 
Didst bearjthe title of my future lord, 
Would'st thou have us'd me thus ! I'll not 

endure it. 

Ihoi. Yet be more patient. 

Elh. Be patient, say'st thou ? go to, for I 
hate thee 
When thou so calmly talk'st. Tho' seem- 
ingly, 

1 oft before his keen commanding eye 
Submissive am, think'st thou I am subdued.' 
No, by my royal race, I'll not endure it : 

I will unto the bishop with my wrono-s ! 
Rever'd and holy men shall do me rio-ht. 
And here he comes unsent for : this my hope 
Calls a good omen. 

Enter Hexulf. 

Good and holy father, 
I crave your blessing. 
Hex. Thou hast it, royal daughter. Art 
thou well .'' 
Thou seem'st disorder'd. 

Elb. Yes, rev'rend father, I am sorely gall'd 
Beneath a heavy and ignoble yoke ; 
My crowned head is in subjection bow'd, 
Like meanest household dame ; and thinkest 

thou 
That it becomes the daughter of a king, 
The chief descendant of ^mur royal race, 
To bear all this, and say that she is well .' 
Hex. My daughter, your great Lord, indeed, 
is foi;m'd 



Of soul more stern than was the gentle Ed- 
ward, 
On whom your maiden fancy first was taught 

To dwell with sanguine hope 

Elb. O holy Hexulf! thou hast nam'd a 
name 
Which to my conscience gives such secret 

pangs ! 
Oh ! I have done such wrong to that sweet 

youth, 
My heart bleeds at the cruel thought. I 

would — 
Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
In reparation of the wrong I've done him. 
Speak, my good father, if thou aught canst 

say ! 
Edward, 'tis said, has many powerful friends 
In secret still devoted to liis cause, 
And not far distant stands his dreary lower. 
O speak to me ! Thou turn'st away thy head 
Disturb'd and frowningly : hast thou no 

counsel. 
For a soul-smitten and distracted woman ? 
{laying her clasped hands earnestly on his 
shoulder, as he turns from her much dis- 
pleased.) 

Hex. Daughter, forbear ! you are, indeed, 
distracted. 
Ethwald, by right of holy bands your lird. 
Is in his seat too firmly fix'd ; and Edward 
Is only by some restless Thanes desired, 
Under tlie influence of that dark wizard. 
That heretic, who still ensnares the young. 
Be wise then, I beseech you, and, in peace. 
Live in the meek subjection of a wife. 

Elb. (stepping back from him with haughty 
contempt^) 
And so, meek, holy man, this is your counsel, 
Breath'd from the gentle spirit of your state. 
I've seen the chaffings of your saintly ire, 
Restrain'd with less concern for sober duty. 
When aught pertaining to your priestly rights 
Was therein touch'd. 
Dwi. Husii ! Ethelbert approaches with 
his friends. 
They come, metiiinks, at an unwonted hour. 
Hex. That artful heretic regards not times. 
His spells still show to him the hour best suits 
His wicked purposes. 

Dwi. Heaven save us all 1 methinks at his 
approach 
The air grows chill around us, and a hue 
Ofitrange unnat'ral paleness sprcaris o'er all. 
Elb. {to Dwi.) Peace, fool ! tliy tancy still 
o'ertops thy wit. 

Enter Selred, Ethelbert, and IIereulf. 

Eth. In your high presence, gracious dame, 
we are 
Thus early visitors, upon our way 
To crave admittance to the royal chamber. 
Is the king stirring yet ? Forgive my bold- 
ness. 
Elb. Good Ethelbert, thou dost me no of- 
fence. 
And you, lord Se]red,and brave Hereulf, too; 
I bid good morrow to you all. The kinff 



190 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Is not within his chamber : unattended 
Of all but Alwy, at the close of night 
He did go forth, and is notyetreturn'd. 
Sel. This much amazes me : the moon was 

dark, 
And cold and rudely blew the northern blast. 
Did. (listening.) Hark ! footsteps sound 

along the secret passage : 
Look to yon door, for something moves the 

bolt. 
The king alone that sacred entry treads. 

Enter Ethwald from a small secret door, fol- 
lowed by Alwy, and starts back upon seeing 
Ethelbert, &c. 

Elh. {recovering from his confusion.) 

A good and early morrow to you all ; 

I little thought — You are astir by times. 
Eth. The same to you, my Lord, with lov- 
ing duty. 
Sd. And you too, royal' brother, you are 
moving 

At an unwonted hour. But you are pale ; 

A ghastly hollow look is in your eyes ; 

What sudden stratagem of nightly war 

Has call'dyou forth at such untimely season .' 

The night was dark, and cold, the north wind 
blew. 

And, if that 1 can read that alter'd brow. 

You come not back unscath'd. 

Etkiv. {confused.) No, I am well. — The 
blast has beat against me. 

And tossing boughs my tangled path^way 
cross 'd — 

In sooth I've held contention with the night. 
Sel. Yea, in good sooth, thou lookest, too, 
like one 

Who has contention held with damned sprites. 

Hast thou not cross'd that glen where, as 'tis 
said. 

The restless ghost of a dead murd'rer stalks ! 

Thou shndd'rest and art pale : O thou hast 
seen it ! 

Thou hast, indeed, tlie haggard face of one 

Who hast seen fearful things. 

Etino. Thou'rt wild and fanciful : I have 
seen nothing : 

I am forespent and faint : rest will restore me. 

Much good be to you all ! (going.) 

Eth. (preventing him.) Nay, on your roy- 
al patience, gracious king. 

We mxist a moment's trespass make, to plead 

For one, upon whose brave but gentle soul 

The night of thraldom hangs 

Ethw. {shrinking hack.) 

I know — I know thy meaning — speak it not. 

It camiot be — There was a time — 'tis past. 
Sel. O say not so : the time for blessed mercy 

Is ever present. For the gentle Edward 

We'll pledge our lives, and give such hostages 

As shall s<;cure your peace. 
Eth. Turn not away ; 

We plead for one whose meek and gen'rous 
soul 

Most unaspiring is, and full of truth ; 

For one who loved you, Ethwald; one by 
nature 



Form'd for the placid love of all his kind ; 
One who did ever in your growing fame 
Take most unenvious joy. Such is our thrall. 
Yea, and the boon that we do crave for hira 
Is but the free use of his cramped limbs, 
And leave to breathe, beneath the cope of 

heaven. 
The wholesome air ; to see the cheering sun, 
To be again reckon'd with living men. 
{kneeling anxl clasping his knees.) 
Ethw. Let go, dark Thane : thou rack'st 

me with thy words ! 
They are vain sounds — the wind hast 

wail'd as thou dost, 
And pled* as sadly too. But that must be 
What needs must be. Reckon'd with living 

men I 
Would that indeed — O would that tills could 

be! 
The term of all is fix'd. — Good night to you — 
I — I should say good morning, but this" light 
Glared strangely on mine eyes, {breaking 

from Eth.) 
Sel. {folloicing him.) My dearest brother ! 

by a brother's love ! 
Ethw. (putting him away with great agita- 
tion.) 
My heart no kindred holds with human thing. 

('Exit quickly in great perturhation, followed 
by Alwy. 

Sd. and Hereidf (looking expressively at 
each other, and then at Ethelbert.) 
Good Ethelbert, what ails thee ? 

Her. Thy fix'd look has a dreadful mean- 
ing in it. 

Eth. Let us begone. 

Sel. No, do not yield it so. I still will plead" 
The gentle Edward's cause : his frowns I fear 
not. 

Eth. Come, come ! there is no cause : 
Edward is free. 

Sel. How so? thou speak 'st it with a wo" 
ful voice. 

Eth. Is not the disembodied spirit free .'' 

Sel. Ha ! think'st thou that .'' No, no ! it 
cannot be I 

Her. {stamping on the ground, and grasping 
his sicord.) 

I'll glut my sword with the foul murd'rer's 
blood, 
If such foul deed hath been ! 

Eth. Hush, hush I intemp'rate boy! Let 
us be gone. 

[Exeunt Eth. Sel. andHex. 

EJ.h. {to Dwi.) Heard'st thou how they con- 
ceive it .' 

Dwi. Ay, mercy ! and it is a fearful thought: 
It glanc'd e'en o'er my mind before they 
spoke. 

fJ^ft. Thou'rt silent, rev'rend father, are thy 
thoughts 
Of such dark hue .' {with solemn earnestness 
to Hex.) 

Hex. Heaven's will be done in all things ! 
erring man 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



191 



.Bows silently. Good health attend your 

greatness. 
Elb. Nay, go not yet, good Hexulf ! in my 

closet 
I much desire some converse with thee. 

Thou, 
3elike, hast raisconceiv'd what I have utter'd 
In unadvised passion, thinking surely 
It bore some meaning 'gainst my lo^d the 

king. 
Hex. No, gracious daughter, I indeed re- 

ceiv'd it 
As words of passion. You are moy'd, I see ; 
But let not this dismay you. If the king 
Has done the deed suspicion fastens on him. 
We o!er his mind shall hold the surer sway. 
A restless penitent will docile prove 
To priestly counsel : this will be our gain. 
But in your closet we'll discourse of this. 
Heaven's will be done in all tilings ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — the king's chamber. 

Enter Ethwald with a thoughtful miserable 
look, and stands silently muttering to himself, 
whenALWY enters in haste, followed by an 
Officer. 
Mwij. Pardon, my Lord : we bring you 

pressing tidings. 
Ethw. (angrily.) Shall I ne'er rest in peace 
in mine own chamber f 
Ha ! would that peace were there ! You bring 

me tidings; 
And from what quarter come they .'' 
Mwy. From Utherbald, who holds your 

western fortress. 
Ethw. He doth not yield, I hope, unto the 
(foe .' It is my strongest hold, and may 
"The strength of Wessex and of Britain 
join'd. 
Of. True, king, but famine alj things will 

subdue. 
Ethw. He has surrender'd then — by heav- 
en and hell 
I'll have his head for this ! 

Micy. No, royal Ethwald, 
It is not yet so bad. But this brave man, 
Commission'd by himself, will tell you all. 
Ethw. Speak, warriour : then he holds the 

fortress still.' 
Of. He does, my Lord, but much he lives 
in fear 
He shall not hold it long, unless your high- 
ness 
Will give your warrant to release the prison- 
ers ; 
Those ill designing Mercians whom your 

wisdom 
Under his guard has placed. 
He bade me say the step is dangerous ; 
But, if it is not done, those idle mouths 
Consuming much, will starve him and his 

men 
Into compliance with the foe's demand. 
What is your sov'reign will .'' for on the in- 
stant 
I must return. 



E thw. Tell him this is no time for foolish 
hazard. 
Let them be put to death. 

Of. (shrinking back.) Must I return with 

this ? all put to death ? 
Ethw. Yes, I have said : didst thou not 

hear my words .' 
Of. I heard, in truth, but mine ears strange- 
ly rung. 
Good saints there are, my Lord, within our 

walls. 
Close pris'ners kept, of war-bred men alone. 
Of whom, I trow, there scarcely is a man 
Who has not some fair stripling by his side 
Sharing the father's bonds, threescore and 
ten ; 

And must they all 

Ethw. I understand thee, fool. 
Let them all die ! have I not said it .' Go ; 
Linger not here, but bear thy message quick- 
ly. [Exit Officer sorrowfully, 
(angrily to Alwy.) What! thou look'st on 

me too, as if, forsooth. 
Thou wert amaz'd at this. Perceiv'st thou 

not 
How hardly I'm beset to keep the power 
I have so dearly bought .' Shall this impede 

me ? 
Let infants shrink ! I have seen blood 

enough ; 
And what have I to do with mercy now .' 

(stalking gloomily away, then returning.) 
Selredand Ethelbert, and fiery Hereulf, 
Are to their castles sullenly retired. 
With many other warlike Thanes. The 

storm 
Is gath'ring round me, but we'll brave it no- 
bly. 
Alwy. The discontented chiefs, as I'm in- 
form 'd 
By faithful spies, are in the halls of Hereulf 
Assembled, brooding o'er their secret treason. 
Ethic. Are they .' Then let us send a chosen 
band 
And seize them unprepared. A nightly 

march 
Will bring them near his castle. Let us then 
Immediate orders give ; the time is precious. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

An apartment in the royal castle 

OR CHIEF RESIDENCE OF ETHWALD. 
DWINA AND SEVERAL OP THE LADIES 
SERVING THE ^UEEJf ARE DISCOVERED 
AT WORK ; SOME SPINNING, SOME 
WINDING COLOURED YARNS FOR THE 
LOOM, AND SOME EMBROIDERING AF- 
TER A RUDE FASHION, 

Dwi. (looking over the First Lady's loork. 
How speeds thy work .' the queen is now im- 
patient ; 
Thou must be diligent. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



First Lad. Nine weary months have I, thou 
knowest well, 
O'er this spread garment bent, and yet, thou 

seest, 
The half is scarcely done. I lack assistance. 
Dwi. And so thou dost, but yet in the wide 
realm 
None can be found but such as lack the skill 
For such assistance. All those mingled col- 
ours, 
And mazy circles, and strange carved spots, 
Look, in good sooth, as tho' the stuff were 

strew'd 
With rich and curious things : tho' much I 

fear 
To tell you what no easy task would prove. 
Sec. Lad. There lives a dame in Kent, I 
have been told, 
Come from some foreign land, if that indeed 
She be no cunning fiend in woman's garb, 
Who, with her needle, can most cunningly 
The true and perfect semblance of real flow- 
ers, 
With stalk and leaves, as fairly fashion out 
As if upon a summer bank they grew. 

First Lad. Ay, ay ! no doubt ! thou hear'st 
strange tales, I ween. 
Didst thou not tell us how, in foreign lands 
Full far from this, the nice and lazy dames 
Do set foul worms to spin their silken yarn.' 
Ha, ha I (thci/ all laugh.) 

Sec. Lad. (angrily.) I did not say so 
First Lad. Nay, nay, but thou didst ! (laugh- 
ing.) 
Sec. Lad. Thou didst mistake me wilfully, 
in spite, 
Malicious as thou art ! 
Dwi. I pray you wrangle not ! when ladies 
work 
They should tell pleasant tales or sweetly sing, 
Not quarrel rudely, thus, like villain's wives. 
Sing me, I pray you now, the song I love. 
You know it well : let all your voices join. 
Omnes. Wc will, good Dwina. 

SONG. 

Wake a v/hile and pleasant be, 
Gentle voice of melody. 

Say, sweet carol, who are they 

Who cheerly greet the rising day ? 

Little birds in leafy bower ; 

Swallows twitt'ring on the tower; 

Larks upon tlie light air borne ; 

Hunters rous'd wilh shrilly horn ; 

The woodman whistling on his way ; 

The new-wak'd child at early play, 

Who barefoot prints the dewy green, 

Winking to the sunny sheen ; 

And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair, 

And blytlily doth her daily task prepare. 

Say, sweet carol, who are they 
Who welcome in the ev'niiig grey ? 
The housewife trim and merry lout. 
Who sit the blazing fire about ; 
The sage a conning o'er his book; 
The tired wight, in rushy nook. 



Who half asleep, but faintly hears 

The gossip's tale hum in his ears ; 

The loosen'd steed in grassy stall ; 

The Thanes feasting in the hall ; 

But most of all the maid of cheerful soul, 

Who fills her peaceful warriour's flowing bowl. 

Well hast thou said ! and thanks to thee, 

Voice of gentle melody ! 

Dwi. (to Third Lady, who sits sad and pen- 
sive.) 
What is the matter, Ella ? Thy sweet voice 
Was wont to join the song. 

Ella. Ah, woe is me ! within these castle 
walls ; 
Under this very tower in which we are. 
There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do 

hear 
But the chill winds that o'er tLeir dungeons 

howl ; 
Or the still tinkling of the water-drops 
Falling from their dank roofs, in dull succes- 
sion, 
Like the death watch at sick men's beds. 

Alas ! 
Whilst you sing cheerly thus, I think of them. 
Dwi. Ay, many a difTrent lot of joy and 
grief 
Within a little compass may be found. 
Under one roof the woeful and the gay 
Do oft abide ; on the same pillow rest. 
And yet, if I may rightlj' judge, the king 
Has but small joy above his wretched thralls. 
Last night I listen'd to his restless steps. 
As oft lip paced his chamber to and fro. 
Right o'er my head ! and I did hear him utter 
Such heavy groans ! 

First Lady, (with all the others gathering 
about Dwina curiously.) 
Didst thou :" And utter'd he no other sound .-' 
I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night 
He sees strange things. 

Jill, (sj)caking together.) O tell us, Dwina ! 

tell us ! 
Dwi. Out on you all ! you hear such fool- 
ish tales ! 
He is himself the ghost that walks the night, 
And cannot rest. 

Ella. Belike he is devising in his mind 
How he shall punish those poor prisoners. 
Who were in Hereulf's towered halls so 

lately " 
Surpriz'd, and in these hollow vaults con- 
fined. 
First Lad. No marvel that it should disturb 
him much. 
When has own brother is amongst the guilty. 
There will be bloody doings soon, I trow ! 
Dwi. Into the hands of good and pious 
Hexulf 
The rebels, will be put, so to be punish'd 
As he in holy zeal shall see it meet. 
Ella. Then they will dearly suffer ! 
Dwi. That holy man no tortures will devise 
Ella. Yes, so perchance, no tortures of the 
flesh : 
But there be those that do upon the soul 
The rack and pincer's work. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



193 



Is he not grandson to that vengeful chief, 
Who, with the death-axe lifted o'er his head, 
Kept his imprison'd foe a live-long night, 
Nor, till the second cock had crow'd the 

morn, 
Dealt him the clemency of death ? Full well 
He is his child I know ! 
Dwi. What aileth thee ? art thou bewitched 
also ? 
Lamentest thou that cursed heretics 
Are put in good men's power ? The sharpest 

punishment 
O'er-reaches not their crime. 

Ella. ODwina,Dwina! thou hast watch'd 
by me 
When on a sick-bed laid, and held my head, 
And kindly wept to see my wasted cheek, 
And lov'st thou cruelty .' It cannot be ! 
Dwi. No, foolish maiden ! mercy to such 

fiends were cruelty. 
Ella. Such fiends ! Alas! do not they look 
like men .' 
Do they not to their needful brethren do 
The kindly deeds of men ? Yea, Ethelbert 
Witliin his halls a houseless Thane maintain'd, 
Whose'substance had been spent in base at- 
tempts 
To work his ruin. 

Dwi. The blackest fiends of all most saintly 
forms 
Oft wear. Go, go ! thou strangely art de- 
luded. 
I tremble for thee ! get thee hence and pray, 
If that the wicked pity of thy heart 
May be forgiven thee. 

Enter a Lady eagerly. 

Come, damsels, come ! along the gallery. 
In slow procession holy Hexulf walks, 
With saintly Woggarwolfe, a fierce chief 

once, 
But now a cowled priest of marv'llous grace. 
They bear some holy relics to the queen, 
Which, near the royal couch with blessings 

laid. 
Will to the king his wonted rest restore. 
Come, meet them on their way, and get a 

blessing. 
Dwi. We will all gladly go. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a royal apartment, light- 
ed ONLY EY THE IrfOON THRO' THE 
HIGH ARCHED WINDOWS. 

Enter Ethwald, as if just risen from bed, loose 
and disordered, but bearing a drawn sword in 
his hand. 

Ethic. Still must this heavy closeness thus 

oppress me .'' 
Will no fresh stream of air breathe on my 

brow. 
And rufile for a while this stilly gloom ? 
O night, when good men rest, and infants 

sleep ! 
Thou art to me no season of repose, 
But a fear'd time of waking more intense. 
Of life more keen, of misery more palpable. 
24 



My rest must be when the broad sun doth 

glare ; 
When armour rings and men walk to and fro ; 
Like a tir'd hound stretch'd in the busy hall, 
I needs must lie : night will not cradle me. 

{looking up anxiously to the loindows.) 
What, looks the moon still thro' that lofty 

arch ^ 
Will't ne'er be mom ? 
If that again in strength 
I led mine army on the bold career 
So surely shapen in my fancy's eye, 
I might again have joy ; but in these towers, 
Around, beneath me, hateful dungeons yawn, 
In every one of which some being lives 
To curse me. Ethelbert, and Selred too, 
My father's son. and my youth's oracle. 
Ye too are found with those, who raise to 

heaven 
The prisoner's prayer against my hated head. 
I am a lofty tree of growth too great 
For its thin soil, from whose wide rooted 

fangs 
The very rocks and earth that foster'd it 
Do rend and fall away. — 1 stand alone ! 
I stand alone ! I thought, alas ! to spread 
My wide protecting boughs o'er my youth's 

friends ; 
But they, like pois'nous brushwood at my root. 
Have chok'd my stately growth e'en more 
than all. 

(musing for some time gloomily.) 
How marr'd and stinted hath my greatness 

been ! 
What am I now of that which long ere now 
I hop'd to be .^ O ! it doth make me mad 
To think of this ! By hell, it shall not be ! 
I would cut off this arm and cast it from me 
For vulture's meat, if it did let or hinder 
Its nobler fellow. 

Yes, they shall die ! 1 to ray fortune's height 
Will rear my lofty head, and stand alone, 
Fearless of storm or tempest. 
(turns round his head upon hearing a rioise, 
and seeing Elburga enter at the bottom of 
the stage with a lamp in her hand, like one 
risen from bed, he starts back and gazes 
icildly upon her.) 
What form is that ? What art thou ? Speak ! 

speak quickly ! 
If thou indeed art aught of living kind. 
Elb. Why didst thou start .' Dost thou not 

know me .-' 
Ethw. No ; 
Thy shadow seem'd to me a crested youth. 
Elb. And with that trusty weapon in thy 
grasp, 
Which thou, of late, e'en on thy nightly 

couch 
Hast sheathless kept, fearest thou living 
man .' 
Ethic. It was not living man I fear'd. 
Elb. What then .? 
Last night when open burst your chamber 

door 
With the rude blast, which it is wont to do, 
You gaz'd upon it with such fearful looks 



194 



ETHWALD:A TRAGEDY. 



Of fix'd expectancy, as one, in truth, 
Looks for the ent'ring of some dreadful 

thing. 
Have you seen aught ? 

Ethw. Get to thy couch. Tliink'st thou I 

will be quostion'd ? 
Elh. (-putting her hand upon his shoulder 
soothinghj.) 
Nay, be not thus uncourtly ! thou shalt tell 
me. 
Ethw. (shaking her off impatiently.) 
Be not a fool ! get tljee to sleep, I say ! 
What dost thou here ? 

Elb. That which, in truth, degrades my 
royal birth. 
And therefore should be chid ; servilely sooth- 
ing 
The fretful moods of one, who, new to great- 
ness, 
Feels its unwieldy robe sit on his shoulders 
Constrain'd and gallingly. 

Ethw. (going up to her sternly and grasp- 
ing her by the jorist.) 
Thou paltry trapping of my regal state, 
Which with its other baubles I havesnatch'd, 
Dar'st thou to front me thus ? Thy foolish 

pride, 
Like the mock loftiness of mjmick great- 
ness, 
Makes us contemned in the public eye, 
And my tight rule more hateful. Get thee 

hence ; 
And be with hooded nuns a gorgeous saint ; 
For know, thou lackest meekness for a queen. 
(Elb. seems much alarmed, hut at the same time 
loalks from him with great assumed haugh- 
tiness, and, Exit.) 

Ethw. (alone.) This woman racks me to 
the very pitch ! 
Where I should look for gentle tenderness, 
There find I heartless pride. Ah ! there was 

one 
Who would have sooth'd my troubles ! there 

was one 
Who would have cheer'd But where- 
fore think I now .'' (pausing thought- 
fully.) 
Elburga has ot late been to my will 
More pliant, oft assuming gentle looks : 
What may this mean ? under this alter'd 

guise 
What treach'ry lurks ? (pausing again for 

some time.) 
And yet it should not be : 
Her greatness must upon my fortune hang. 
And this she knows full well. I've chid her 

roughly. 
Some have, from habit and united interest. 
Amidst the wreck of other human ties. 
The stedfast duty of a wife rctain'd, 
E'en when; no early love or soft endearments 
The bands have knit. Yes ; 1 have been too 
rough, (calling to her off the stage.) 
Elburga I dost thou hear me, gentle wife .= 
And thou com'st at my bidding : this is 
kindly. 



Enter Elburga humbled. 

Elh. You have been stern, my Lord. You 
think, belike. 
That I have urged you in my zeal too far 
To o-ive those rebel chieftains up to Hexulf, 
As best agreeing with the former ties 
That bound you to those base ungrateful men. 
And with the nature of their chiefest crime, 
Foul heresy ; but, if in this I err. 
Zeal for ydur safety urged me to offend. 

Ethw. I've been too stern with thee, but 
heed it not. 
And in that matter thou hast urged so strong- 

But that I nmch mistrust his cruelty, 
I would resign those miserable men 
To Hexulfs vengeful arm ; for much he does 
Public opinion guide, and e'en to us. 
If now provok'd, might prove a dang'rous foe. 
Elh. Mistrust him not ; he will by oath en- 
gage 
To use no torture. 

Ethic. And yet, methinks, Selred might 
still be saved. 
A holy man might well devise the means 
To save a brother. 

Elb. He will think of it. 
Much do the soldiers the bold courage prize. 
And simple plainness of his honest mind ; 
To slay him might be dangerous. 

Ethw. Ha ! is it so ? They've prais'd him 

much of late .' 
Elb. Yes, he has grown into their favour 

greatly. 
Ethw. The changeful fools ! I do remem- 
ber well 
They shouted loudly o'er his paltry gift, 
Because so simply giv'n,when my rich spoils 
Seem'd little priz'd. I like not this. 'Twere 

well 
He were remov'd. We will consider this. 
Elh. Come to your chamber then. 
EthiD. No, no ! into that dark oppressive den 
Of horrid thoughts I'll not return. 

Elb. Not so ! 
I've trimm'd the smould'ring fire, and by your 

couch 
The holy things are laid : return and fear not. 
Ethw. I thank thy kindness ; I, indeed, 
have need 
Of holy things, if that a stained soul 
May kindred hold with such. [Exeunt. 

Scene IIL — a vaulted prison, her- 
edlf, selred, and three thanes 
of their party, are discoverep 
walking gloosiily and silently 
up and down. 

First Th. (to the Second, who groans heavi- 

Ah ! wherefore, noble partner, art thou thus? 
We all are brothers, equal in misfortune ; 
Let us endure it nobly ! 

Sec. Th. Ay, so I would, but it o'ercometh 
me. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



195 



E'en this same night, in my far distant home 
Fires blaze upon my towers, to guide my steps 
Thro' woody dells which I shall pass no more. 
E'en on this night 1 promis'd to return. 
First Til. Yet bear it up, and do not dash 
us thus ; 
We have all pleasant homes as well as thou, 
To which 1 fear we shall no more return. 
Sel. (to Third Tliane, icho advances from the 
bottom of the stage.) 
What didst thou look at yonder ^ Where is 
Ethelbert 1 
Third Th. Within yon deep recess, upon 
his knees ; 
Just now 1 saw him, and I turn'd aside, 
Knowing the modest nature of his worship. 

Enter Ethelbert from the recess, slowly ad- 
vancing from the bottom of the stage. 

But see, he comes, and on his noble front 
A smiling calmness rests, like one whose 

mind 
Hathliigh communion held with blessed souls. 
Her. {to Eth.) Where hast thou been, brave 
Ethelbert ? Ah ! now 
Full well I see ! thy countenance declares. 
Didst thou remember us ? A good man's pray- 
ers 
Will from the deepest dungeon climb heav- 
en's height, 
And bring a blessing down. 

Eth. Ye all are men, who with undaunted 
hearts. 
Most nobly have contended for the right : 
Your recompense is sure ; ye shall be bless'd. 
iS'ec. Tk. How bless'd ? With what assur- 
ance of the mind 
Hast thou pray'd for us .-' Tell us truly, Eth- 
elbert ; 
As those about to die, or those who yet 
Shall for a term this earthly state retain ? 
Such strong impress'd ideas oft foreshew 
Th' event to follow. 

Eth. Man, ever eager to foresee his doom. 
With such conceits his fancy fondly flatters, 
And I too much have given my mind to this ; 
But let us now, like soldiers on the watch. 
Put our soul's armour on, alike prepared 
For all a soldier's warfare brings. In heav'n 
He sits, who on the inward war of souls 
Looks down, as one beholds a well-fought 

field, 
And nobly will reward the brave man's strug- 
gle. 
{raising his clasped hands fervently.) 

let him novir behold what his weak creatures. 
With many cares and fears of nature weak, 
Firmly relying on his righteous rule. 

Will suffer cheerfully I Be ye prepared ! 
Her. We are prepared : what say ye, noble 

colleagues .' 
First Th. If that I here a bloody death 
must meet. 
And in some nook unbless'd, far from the 

tombs 
Of all mine honour'd race, these bones be laid, 

1 do submit me to the will of Heaven. 



Third Th. E'en so do I in deep submission 

bow. 
Second Th. If that no more within ray 
op'ning gates 
My children and my wife shall e'er again 
Greet my return, or this chill'd frame again 
E'er feel the kindly warmth of home, so be it ! 
His blessed will be done who ruleth all ! 
Her. If these nerv'd arms, full in the 
strength of youth, 
Must rot i' the earth, and all my glorious 

hopes 
To free this land , with which high beat this 

heart. 
Must be cut off i' th' midst, I bow my spirit 
To its Almighty Lord ; I murmur not. 
Yet, O that it had been permitted me 
To have contended in that noble cause ! 
Low must I sleep in an unnoted grave, 
Whilst the oppressor of my native country 
Riots in brave men's blood ! 

Eth. Peace, noble boy ! he will not riot 
long. 
They shall arise, who for that noble cause. 
With better fortune, not with firmer hearts 
Than we to th' work have yoked, will bravely 

strive. 
To future heroes shall our names be knowh ; 
And in our graves of turf we shall be bless'd. 
Her. Well then, I'm satisfied : I'll smiie in 
death ; 
Yea, proudly will I smile ! it wounds me not. 
Eth. How, Selred ? thou alone art silent 
here : 
To Heaven's high will what ofFring makest 
thou ? 
Sel. Nothing, good Ethelbert. What can 
a man 
Little enriched with the mind's rare treasure, 
And of th' unrighteous turmoil of this world 
flight weary grown, to his great Maker offer .'' 
Yet I can die as meekly as ye will, 
Albeit of his regard it is unworthy. 

Eth. Give rae thine hand, brave man ! 
Well hast thou said ! 
In truth thy oft'ring far outprizes all ; 
Rich in humility. Come, valiant friends ; 
It makes my breast beat high to see you thus 
For fortune's worst prepar'd with quiet minds. 
I'll sit me down awhile : come, gather round 

rae, ^ 

And for a little space the time beguile 
With the free use and interchange of thought ; 
Of that which no stern tyrant can controul. 
{they all sit doicn on the ground.) 
Her. (to Eth.) Nay, on my folded mantle 

do thou sit. 
Eth. I thank thee, but I feel no cold. My 
children ! 
We do but want, methinks, a blazing fire. 
To make us thus a friendly chosen circle 
For converse met. Then we belike would 

talk 
Of sprites, and magic power, and marv'llous 

things. 
That shorten weary hours ; now let us talk 
Of things that do th' inquiring mind of man 



196 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



With nobler wonder fill ; that state unseen, 
With all its varied mansions of delight, 
To which the virtuous go, when like a dream 
Smote by the beams of op'ning day, this life 
With all its shadowy forms, fades into nothing. 
First Th. Ay, Ethclbert, thou'rt full of sa- 
cred lore ; 
Talk thou of this, and we will gladly hear thee. 
Howthink'st thou we shall feel, when, like a 

nestling. 
Burst from its shell, we wake to this new day .'' 
Eth. Why e'en, methinks, like to the very 

thing 
To which, good Thane, thou hast compared us: 
For here we are but nestlings, and I trow, 
Pent up i' the dark we are. When that shall 

open 
Which human eye hath ne'er beheld, nor 

mind ' 
To human body link'd, hath e'er conceiv'd. 
Grand, awful, lovely: — O whatform of words 
Will body out my thoughts ! — I'll hold my 

peace. 
{covers his head with his hand, and is silent for 

a vioment.) 
Then like a guised band, that for a while 
Has mimick'd forth a sad and gloomy tale. 
We shall these worthless weeds of flesh cast off 
And be the children of our father's house. 
Her. {eagerly.) But what say'st thou of 

those who doff these weeds 
To clothe themselves in flames of endless 

woe .'' 
Eth. Peace to thee ! what have we to do 

with this .'' 
Let it be veil'd in night ! 

Her. Nay, nay, good Ethelbert ! 
I fain would know what foul oppression earns ; 
And please my fancy with the after doom 
Of tyrants, such as him beneath whose fangs 
Our wretched country bleeds. They shall 

be cursed : 
O say how deeply ! 

Eth. Hereulf, the spirit of him thou call'st 

thy master, 
Who died for guilty men, breathes not in thee. 
Dost thou rejoice that aught of human kind 
Shall be accursed ? 

Her. {starting up) If not within the fiery 

gulph of woe 
His doom be cast, there is no power above ! 
Eth. For shame, young man ! this ill be- 
seems thy state : 
Sit down, and I will tell thee of this Ethwald. 

Sel. {rising up greatly agitated. ) 
O no ! I pray thee do not talk of him ! 
The blood of MoUo has been Mercia's curse. 
Eth. Sit down ; I crave it of you both ; sit 

down, 
And wear within your breast a manlier spirit. 

{pointing to Her. to sit close by him.) 
Nay, here, my son, and let me take thy hand. 
Thus by my side, in his fair op'ning youth. 
Full oft has Ethwald sat and heard me talk. 
With, as I well believe, a heart inclin'd, 
Tho' somewhat dash'd with shades of darker 

hue, 



To truth and kindly deeds. 

But from this mixed seed of good and ill, 

One baleful plant in dark strength rais'd its 

head, 
O'ertopping all the rest ; which fav'ring cir- 
cumstance 
Did foster up unto a growth so monstrous. 
That underneath its wide and noxious shade 
Died all the native plants of feebler stem. 

I have wept for him, as I have lain 

On my still midnight couch I I try'd to save 

him. 
But ev'ry means against its end recoil'd. 
Good Selred, thou rememb'rest well that night 
When to the Female Druid's awful cave 

1 led thy brother. 

Scl. I remember well. 
{all the Thanes speaking at once, eagerly.) 
Ay, what of that .-' We've heard strange tales 
of it ? 
Eth. At my request the Arch Sister there 
receiv'd him; 
And tho' she promis'd me she would unfold 
Such things as might a bold ambitious mind 
Scare from its wishes, she,unweetingly. 
Did but the more inflame them. 

Her. Ha! what say'st thou .'' 
Did she not shew the form of things to come 
By fix'd decrees, unsubject to her will ? 
Eth. She shew'd him things, indeed, most 
wonderful ; 
Whether by human arts to us unknown, 
Or magic, or the aid of powerful spirits 
Call'd forth, I wot not. Hark ! I hear a noise. 
First Th. I hear without the tread of 
many feet. 
They pull our dungeon's bars : ha, see 

who come ! 
Wear they not ruffians' brows .-' 

Sec. Th. And follow'd still by more : a 
num'rous crew. 
What is their business here ? 

(Enter a band of armed men, accompanied by 
two Priests, and carrying with them a block, 
an axe, and a large sheet or curtain, &c.) 

Eth. Do not the axe and block borne by 
those slaves 
Tell thee their errand ? But we'll face them 

bravely. 
They do not come upon us unawares ; 
We are prepar'd. — Let us take hands, my 

friends ! 
Let us united stand, a worthy band 
Of girded trav'llers, ready to depart 
Unto a land unknown but yet undreaded. 
{They all take hands, facing about, and. wait 
ing the approach of the men with a stead]) 
countenance.) 

First Pr. Why look you on us thus with 
lowering brows .' 
Can linked hands the keen-edg'd steel resist.' 
Her. No, Priest, but linked hearts can bid 
defiance 
To the barb'd lightning, if so arm'd withal 
Thou didst encounter us. Quick do thine 
ofiice ! 



ETHWALD I A TRAGEDY. 



197 



Here six brave heads abide thee, who ne'er 

yet 
Have meanly bow'd themselves to living 
wight. 
First Pr. You are too forward, youth : less 
will suffice : 
One of those guilty heads beneath our axe 
Must fall, the rest shall live. So wills our 

chief. 
Lots shall decide our victim : in this urn 
Inclosed are your fates. (Setting down an urn 
in the middle of the stage upon a 
small tripod or stand, whilst the chiefs 
instantly let go hands, and stand gaz- 
ing upon one another.) 
Ha ! have I then so suddenly unlink'd you .' 
(with a malicious smile.) 
Put forth your hands, brave chiefs : put forth 

your hands ; 
And he who draws the sable lot of death, 
Full speedy be liis doom ! 
(Jl long pause ; the chiefs still look upon one 
another, none of them offering to stej) forward 
to the urn.) 
What, pause ye thus, indeed ? This hateful 

urn 
Doth but one death contain and many lives, 
And shrink ye from it, brave and valiant 

Thanes 1 
Then lots shall first be cast, who shall the first 
Thrust in his hand into this pot of terrors. 
Eth. {stepping forth.) No, thou rude servant 
of a gentle master. 
Doing disgrace to thy much honor'd garb. 
This shall not be : I am the eldest chief. 
And I of right should stand the foremost 
here. 

{putting his hand into the urn.) 
What Heaven appoints me welcome ! 

Sel. {putting in his hand.) 
I am the next: Heaven send me what it lists I 

First Th. {putting in his hand.) 
Here also let me take. If that the race 
Of noble Coimac shall be sunk in night, 
How small a thing determines ! 
Sec. Th. {putting in his hand.) 
On which shall fix my grasp .' {hesitating.) 

or this .' or this .' 
No, cursed thing ! whate'er thou art 111 have 
thee. 
Third Th. {putting out his hand with pertur- 
bation, Tnisscs the narrow mouth of 
the urn.) 
I wist not how it is : where is its mouth .? 
First Pr. Direct thy hand more steadily, 
good Thane, 
And fear not thou wilt miss it. {to Hereulf.) 
Now, youthful chief, one lot remains for thee. 
(Hereulf pauses for a moment, and his coun- 
tenance betrays perturbation, when Ethelbert 
steps forth again.) 

Eth. No, this young chieftain's lot belongs 
to me : 
He shall not draw, {putting inhis hand quick- 
ly and taking out the last lot.) 
Now, Priest, the lots are finish'd. 
First. Pr. Well, open then your fates. 



( They each open their lots, whilst Hereulf stands 
looking eagerly in their faces as they open 
them.) 

Sec. Th. {opening his and then holding up 
his hands in extacy.) 
Wife, children, home ! I am a living man ! 

First Th. {having opened his.) 
I number still with those who breathe the air. 
And look upon the light ! blest Heaven so 
wills it. 
Third Th. {looking at his joyfully.) 
Fate is with me ! the race of Cormac lives ! 
Her. {after looking anxiously first upon 
Ethelbert and then upon Selred.) 
Selred, what is thy lot? is't not dark .' 
Sel. No, Hereulf 

Her. Oh, Ethelbert ! thou smilest on me ! 
alas ! 
It is a dismal smile ! thou art the victim 1 
Thou shalt not die : the lot of right is mine. 
A shade of human weakness cross'd my soul. 
Such as before, not in the horrid fields 
Of crimson slaughter did I ever feel; 
But it is past ; now I can bravely die, 
And I will have my right. 

Eth. {pushing hiin affectionately away.) 
Away, my son ! It is as it should be. 

Her. if thou wilt entreat me as a man, 
Nor slur me with contempt ! I do beseech 

thee 
Upon my bended knee ! {kneeling.) O if thou 

diest, 
I of all living things most wretched am ! 
Eth. Be temperate, my son ! thou art re- 
serv'd 
For what the fervid strength of active youth 
Can best perform. O take him from me, 

friends ! 
{The Thanes take Herenlf forcibly from cling- 
ing round Ethelbert, and he then assuming 
a, softened solemnity.) 
Now, my brave friends, we have together 

fought 
A noble warfare ; I am call'd away ! 
Let me in kind and true affection leave you. 
Thanes, {speaking together.) Alas, thou 
art our father and our friend ! 
Alas, that thou should'st meet this dismal end ! 

Eth. Ay, true, indeed, it is a dismal end 
To mortal feeling; yet within my breast 
Blest hope and love, and heaven-ward confi- 
dence, 
With human frailty so combined are, 
That I do feel a wild and trembling pleasure. 
Even on this awful verge, methinks I go. 
Like a chid infant, from his passing term 
Of short disgrace, back to his father's pres- 
ence. 
{Holding up his hands with a dignified exul- 
tation.) 
I feel an awful joy ! — Farewell, my friends ! 
Selred, we've fought in many a field togetlicr, 
And still as brothers been ; take thou, I pray, 
This token of my love. And thou, good 

Wolfere, 
I've ever priz'd thy worth: wear thou this 
rino-. 



198 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



( To the two other chiefs, giving them also tokens.) 
And you, brave chiefs, I've ever lov'd you 

both. 
And now, my noble Hereulf, 
Of all the youth to whom my soul e'er knit, 
As with a parent's love, in the good cause, 
Thee have I found most fervent and most 

firm ; 
Be thine my sword, wliich in my native hall, 
Hung o'er my noble father's arms,thou'lt find, 
And be it in thy hands what well thou know'st 
It would have been in mine. Farewell, my 

friends ! 
God bless you all! 

(They all crowd about him, some kissing his 
hands, some taking hold of his clothes, ex- 
cept Hereulf, who stiirting away from him, 
throics himself upo7i the ground in an agomj 
of grief. Ethelhert lifts up his eyes and 
his hands as if he were muttering a silent 
blessing over them.) 

First Pr. This may not be ! down with 
those impious hands ! 
Dar'st thou, foul heretic, before the face 
Of iialiow'd men, thus mutter pra^'crs accurst.'' 
Eth. Doth this offend j'ou .'' — O it makes 
me feel 
A spirit for this awful hour unmeet, 
When I do think on you, ye hypocrites ! 
First Pr. Come, come ! we waste our time, 

the heads-man waits. 
(To Etii. Prepare thee for the block. 
Eth. And will you in the sight of these my 
friends 
Your bloody task perform ? Let them retire. 
First Pr. Nay, nay, that may not be : our 
pious Hexulf 
Has given his orders. 

Sec. Pr. O be not so cruel I 
Tho' he has ordered so, yet, ne'ertheless, 
We may suspend this veil, and from their eyes 
The horrid sight conceal. 

First Pr. Then be it so ; I grant it. 
{A large cloth or curtain is suspended upon 
the points of two sjjiurs, held tip h if spear- 
men, concealing the block and executioner, 

^c.from the Thanes.) 
First Pr. (to the men behind the curtain, af- 
ter a pause.) Are ye ready .-' 
Voice behind. Yes, we are ready now. {To 
Ein.) 
And thou.'' 

Eth. God be my strength ! I'jn ready also. 
{/Is the Priest is leading Etlrelbert behind the 
curtain, he turns abo-ut to give a last look to 
his friends ; and they, laying their hands 
devoutly upon their breasts, bote to him 
very low. They then go behind the curtain, 
leaving tlie Thanes on the front of the stage, 
who stand fixed in silent and horrid expecta- 
tation; except ScXrcd, xoho sits down upon 
the ground icith his face hid between his 
knees, and. Hexulf, who rising suddenly from 
the ground, looks wildly rounil, and seeing 
Ethelbert ^OHC, throws himself down again 
in all the distraction of grief and despair.) 



{Ji voice behind, after some noise and bustle of 

preparation has been heard.) 
Now do'ft" his garment, and undo his^vest, 
Fie on it, there ! assist the prisoner. 

Sec. Voice. Let some one hold his hands. 
Third Voice. Do ye that office, (a pause of 

some length.) 
Voice again. Heads-man, let fall thy blow, 
he gives the sign. 
(The axe is seen lifted up above the curtain: 
and the sound of the stroke is heard.) 
Thanes, (shrinking involuntarily, and all 
speaking at once.) 
The stroke of death is given ! 
(The spearmen let fall the curtain, and the body 
of Ethelbert is discovered upon the ground, 
icith a cloth over it; whilst his head is held 
up by the Executioner, but seen very indis- 
tinctly through the spears and pikes of the 
surrounding Soldiers. The Thanes staft 
back, and avert their faces.) 
First Pr. (coming forward.) 
Rebellious Thanes, ye see a deed of justice. 
Here rest ye, and another day of Hfe 
Enjoy together : at this hour to-morrow 
We'll visit you, and then, by lot determin'd, 
Another head must fall. So wills the king, 
First Th. What words are these .'' 
Second Th. Do thine ears catch their sense .-■ 
Third Th. I cannot tell thee ; mine con- 

fus'dly sound. 
First Pr. (raising his voice louder.) 
To-morrow at this hour we'll visit you. 
And lx!rc again, selected by the lot. 
Another head must fall. Till then, farewell ! 
Another day of life enjoy securely : 
Much happiness be with you. 
(Jlnin voluntary groan bursts from </(c Thanes, 
and Hereulf, starting furiously from the 
ground, clenching his hands in a mcnocing 
posture as the Priests and Spearmen, <^c. 
retire. The scene doses.*) 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — an open space on th e 

WALLS OF THE CASTLE. 

Enter Alwy and Hexulf, talking as tl»ey ester 
with violent gesture. 

Hex. (with angry vehemence.) 
Escap'd, say'st thou, with all the rebel chiefs ? 



* Should this play ever have the honour of be- 
ing represented upon any stage, a scene of this 
kind, in which so many inferior actors would be 
put into situations requiring tho expression of 
strong passion, might be a disadvantage to it ; I 
should, therefore, recommend havingthe front of 
the stage on v/hich the Tlianes are, during the 
last part of the scene, thrown into deep shade, 
and the light only to come across the back-ground 
at the bottom of the stage : this would give to 
the whole a greater solemnity ; and by this mean 
no expression of countenance, but only that of 
gesture, would be required of them. 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



199 



Hereulf escap'd ? th' arch fknd himself hatli 

done it, 
If what thou say 'st be true. — It is impossible. 
Say'st thou they are escap'd ? 
Mwy,. In very truth they are. 
Hex. Then damned treachery has aided 

them ! 
Jlhmj. Nay, rather say, thy artful cruelty 
Arm'd them with that which to the weakly 

frame 
Lends a nerv'd giant's strength ; despair. 

From out 
The thicK and massy wall, now somewhat 

loose 
And jagged grown with time, cemented 

heaps, 
Which scarce two teams of oxen could have 

mov'd. 
They've torn, and found a passage to the moat. 
What did it signify in what dire form 
Death frown'd upon them, so as they had 

died .' 
Hez. Who can foresee events .' As well as 

thou. 
1 would that one swift stroke had slain them 

all 
Rather than this had been. But Ethelbert 
And Selred are secur'd. Was it not Selred 
Who on tlie second night our victim fell ^ 

Alley. It was, but better had it been for us 
Had they been left alive : had they been still 
In their own castles unmolested left. 
For like a wounded serpent, who, aloft. 
The surgy volumes of his mangled length 
In agony the more terrific rears 
Against his enemy, this maimed compact 
Will from thy stroke but the more fiercely 

rise, 
Now fiery Hereulf is their daring leader. 
And what have we to look for .' 

Hex. Dire, bloody vengearice. — O some 

damned traitor 
Hath done this work ! it could not else have 

been ! 
Alwy. Well, do thou find him out then, if 

thou canst, 
And let thy vengeance fall where lies the sin. 
Hex. Doth the king know of this } 
Mwy, He doth not yet. 
Hex. Then must he be inform'd without 

delay. 
Ahoy. As quickly as you please, if that you 

please 
To tak.e that oSice on yourself, good father ; 
But as for me, I must right plainly say 
1 will not venture to say it; no faith ! of late 
The frame and temper of king, Ethwald's 

mind 
Is chang'd. He ever was in former times 
Cheerful, collected, sanguine ; for all turns 
Of fate prepar'd, like a fair ample lake, 
Whose breast receives the azure hue of heav- 
en. 
And sparkles gaily in the breezy moon : 
But now, like a swoln flood whose course has 

been 
O'er rude opposing rocks and rugged shelves ; 



Whose turbid waters wear the sullen shade 
Of dark o'erchanging banks, and all enchafd 
Round ev'ry little pebble fiercely roars. 
Boiling in foamy circles, his chaf d spirit 
Can bear th' .encounter of no adverse thing 
To his stern will oppos'd. I may not tell 

him. 
Hex. Be not so fearful ! art thou not a 

man 
Us'd to the sudden turns of great men's hu- 
mours .•' 
Thou best can do it, Alwy. {soothingly.) 

Alwy. Nay, father, better will it suit your 

age 
And rev'rend state. And he has need, I 

ween. 
Of ghostly counsel too : night after night 
He rises from his tossing sleepless couch. 
Oft wildly staring round the vacant chamber. 
As if his fancy peopled the dark void 
With horrid shapes. The queen hath told me 

this. 
Come, look to it, for something must be done. 
Hex. I will accompany your homeward 

steps. 
Whilst we consider of it. {Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a royal apartment, and 

A SERVANT DISCOVERED BUSILY EM- 
PLOYED IN LIGHTING IT UP. 

Enter to him another Servant. 

Sec. Serv. Wilt thou ne'er finish lightino- 

these grim walls ? 
Will not those lamps suffice ? 

First Serv. No, by my faith, we want as 

many more .'' 
For still, thou see'st that pillar'd corner's 

dark, 
(pointing to a gloomy recess on the other side 

of the stage.) 
Wherein the eye of conscience-scared folks 
Might fearful things espy. I am command- 
ed 
To lighten each apartment of this tower 
To noon-day pitch. 

Sec. Serv. Ay, Uthbert, these are fearful, 

bloody times ! 
Ethwald, God knows, has on his conscience 

laid 
A weight of cruel deeds : the executioner 
Works for him now in the grim holds of 

death , 
Instead of armed warriours in the field ; 
And now men steal abroad in twilight's 

gloom, 
To talk of fearful things, not by the blaze 
Of cheerful fires, in peaceful cottage, heap'd 
With sparkling faggots from l!ie winter store. 
First Serv. Ay, thou say'st well ; it is a 

fearful time ; 
No marvel Ethwald should not love the dark, 
In which his fancy shapes all fearful things. 
Sec. Serv. What, dost thou think it is his 

fancy's shapes 
He looks upon ? No, no : believe me, friend, 
Night and the darkness are inhabited 



200 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



By those who move near neighbours to the 

living ; 
Close by their very sides, yet unperceiv'd 
By all, but those whose eyes unveiled are 
By lieavenly power, in mercy or in wrath. 
Such proofs of this I've heard. — Last night 

thou know'st 
The royal grooms who near their Master 

sleep, 
In the adjoining chamber much were scar'd 
With fearful sounds. 

First Scrv. I know it not. — Who was it 

told it thee ? 
At midnight was it ? (eagerly.) 

Sec. Serv. Yes, come with me to Baldwick, 

he will tell thee ; 
He heard it all : thou wilt return in time 
To finish, here, thy task. We'll have a horn 
Of foaming ale, and thou shalt hear it all. 
Good foaming ale: ay, mercy on us all ! 
We live in fearful times ! {listening.) 

First Serv. {listcniyig also.) What shall 1 do? 
I hear the king a speaking angrily, 
And coming hitherward. What shall I do ? 
Shall I remain and face him ? nay good faith ! 
I'll shun the storm : he is engag'd perchance, 
Too much to notice may unfinish'd task. 

[Exeunt hastily. 

Enter Ethwald talking angrily to a noble 
Thane. 

EthiD. Nay, nay, these are excuses, noble 

Edmar, 
Not reasons ; all our northern troops ere now 
Might well have been in readiness. 'Tis plain 
Such backward sloth from disaffection springs. 
I,ook to it well : — if with the waning moon. 
He and his vassals have not join'd our stand- 
ard, 
I'll hold him as a traitor. 

Thane. My royal Lord, be not so wroth 

with him. 
Nor let your noble mind to dark suspicion 
So quickly yield. This is the season still. 
When unbraced warriours on the rushy floor 
Stretch them in pleasing sloth ; list'ning to 

tales 
Of ancient crones, or merry harpers' lays. 
And batt'ning on the housewife's gusty cheer : 
Sprino- has not yet so temper'd the chill sky 
That men will change their warm and shelt- 

'ring roofs 
For its cold canopy. 

Ethw. O foul befal their gluttony and sloth ! 
Fie on't ! there is no season to the brave 
For war unfit. With this moon's waning 

light, 
I will.with those who dare their king to follow, 
My northern march begin. 

Thane. Then faith, my Lord, 
I much suspect your army will be small : 
And what advantage may you well e.xpect 
From all this haste .' E'en three weeks later, 

still 
You will surpri.se the foe, but ill prepar'd 
To oppose invasion. Do then, gracious king, 
Listen to friendly counsel, and the while, 



Within these walls where ev'ry pleasure 

courts you, 
Like a magnificent and royal king, 
Your princely home enjoy. 

Ethw. Out on it, man, thou know'st not 

what thou say'st ! 
Home hath he none who once becomes a king I 
Behind the pillar'd masses of his halls 
The dagger'd traitor lurks ; his vaulted roofs 
Do nightly echo to the whisper'd vows 
Of those who curse him ; at his costly board 
With grinning smile the damned pois'ner sits ; 
Yea, e'en the void recesses of his chamber, 
Void tho' they be unto all eyes but his, 

Are peopled {stopping short.) 

Thane, {eagerly.) Good ray Lord ! what 

do you mean .'' 
Ethw. In the confusion of tumultuous war, 
'Midst the terrific shouts of closing foes, 
And trampling steeds, and din of bick'ring 

arms ; 
Where dying warriours groan unheard, and 

things 
Horrid to nature are as tho' they were not, 
Unwail'd, unheeded : 
Where the rough chance of each contentious 

day 
Blots out all irksome mem'ry of the past. 
All fear of that to follow : where like herds 
Of savage beasts on the bleak mountain's side, 
Drench'd with the rain, the weary warriours 

lie. 
Whilst nightly tempests howhng o'er their 

heads 
Lull them to rest ; there is my home, good 

Thane. 
Thane. No marvel, then, my Lord, if to the 

field 
You turn your eager thoughts ! I only fear 
Your royal arms will in Northumberland 
Find no contention worthy of their force ; 
For rumour says, the northern prince is gone 
With his best troops against the Scottish king. 
Ethrc. If this be true, it is unto my fortune 
Most fair occasion ; master of the north 
I soon shall be, on the west again 
Pour like a torrent, big with gather'd strength. 
Who told thee this.'' it breaks upon me, friend, 
Like brightning sunbeams thwart a low 'ring 

sky. 
Thane. A northern villain brought to me 

the tale. 
And told with circumstances of good credit. 
Ethw. Run thou and find him out ; I'll wait 

thee here ; 
I must have more assurance of this matter. 
Quickly, my worthy Edmar ! [Exit Thane. 
{alone.) If that this rumour bears a true re- 
port, 
Th' opposing rocks on which my rising tide 
So long has beat, before me now give way, 
And thro' the breach my onward waves shall 

roll 
To the wide limits of their destin'd reach. 
Full day, altho' tempestuous it may prove. 
Now breaks on me ! now come the glorious 

height. 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



201 



And the proud front, and the full grasp of 

power ! 
''"ly? glooroy thoughts, and hideous fantasies, 
Back to the sprites that sent you ! England's 

king 
Behind him casts the fears of Mercia's lord. 
The north subdued, then stretching to the 
west 

My growing strength {stretching out 

his arms in the vehemence of action, 
he turns himself round, directly fac- 
ing the gloomy recess on the opposite 
side of the stage.) 
Ha ! doth some gloomy void still yawn be- 
fore me, 
In fearful shade ? (turning his eyes away has- 
tily from it.) 
No ; I saw nothing : shall I thus be moved 
With ev'ry murky nook ? I'll look again. 

(steals a fearful look to the recess, and 

then starling back, turns away from 

it loith horrour.) 

O they're all there again ! and ev'ry phantom 

Mark'd with its grisly wounds, e'en as before. 

Ho ! who waits there .' Hugon,! say, ho Hu- 

gon! 
Come to me ! quickly come ! 

Enter a Groom of his chamber. 
Groom. Save you, my royal Lord ! What is 
your pleasure .'' 
Are you in pain ? Your voice did sound, me- 

thought, 
With strange unnafral strength. 
Ethio. Bring me lights here. 
Groom. A hundred lamps would scarce 
suffice, I ween. 
To light this spacious chamber. 

Ethw. Then let a thousand do it ; must I 
still 
In ev'ry shady corner of my house 
See hideous quickly go, and do my bid- 
ding. 
Why star'st thou round thee thus .' dost thou 
see aught .' 
Groom. No, nothing, (looking round fear- 
fully.) 
Ethio. Thou need'st not look ; 'tis noth- 
ing ; fancy oft 
Deceives the eye with strange and flitting 

things. 
Regard it not, but quickly bring more lamps. 
Groom. Nay, good my Lord, shall I remain 
with you, 
And call my fallow ? 

Ethw. (angrily.) Do as thou art commanded. 
[Exit Groom. 
This man perceives the weakness of my mind. 
Am I, indeed, the warlike king of Mercia .? 
Re-enter two Grooms with lamps, which they 
place in the recess. Ethwald, not venturing 
to look on it again till the lights are placed, 
now turns round to it, and seems relieved. 
Ye have done well, (after a pause, in which 
he walks several times across the 
stage, stopping short, and seeing the 
Grooms still there. ) 

25 



Why do ye linger here ? I want ye not. 
Begone. [Exeunt Grooms. 

But that I would not to those fools 
Betray the shameful secret of my mind, 
I fain would call them back. 
What are these horrours .' 
A fearful visitation of a time 
That will o'erpass .' O might I so believe it ! 
Edmar, methinks, ere this might be return'd : 
I'll wait for him no more : I'll go myself 
And meet him. (going totoards the large arch- 
ed door by w/iich he entered, he starts 
back from it with horrour.) 
Ha ! they are there again ! 
E'en in the very door-way do they front me ! 
Still foremost Ethelbert and Selred tower 
With their new-sever'd necks, and fix on me 
Their death-strain'd eye-balls ; and behind 

them frowns 
The murder'd youth, and Oswal's scepter'd 

ghost : 
Whilst seen as if half fading into air. 
The pale distracted maid shews her faint 

form. 
Thrice, in this very form and order seen. 
They have before me stood. What may it 

mean ? 
I've heard that shapes like these will to the 

utterance 
Of human voice give back articulate sound, 
And, having so adjured been, depart. 
(stretching out both his hands, and clenching 

them resolutely.) 
I'll do it, tho' behind them hell should yawn 
With all its unveil'd horrours. (turning again 
to the door-tcay with auful solemnity.) 
If aught ye be but flitting fantasies. 
But empty semblance of the form ye wear ; 
If aught ye be that can to human voice 
Real audience give, and a real sense receive 
Of that on which your fix'd and hollow eyes 
So stern and fix'dly glare ; I do conjure you 
Depart from me, and come again no more ! 
From me depart ! Full well those ghastly 

wounds 
Have been return'd into this tortur'd breast : 

drive me not unto the horrid brink 
Of dire distraction ! 

Speak, Ethelbert ! O speak, if voice thou hast ! 
Tell me what sacrifice can soothe your spirits ; 
Can still the unquiet sleepers of the grave : 
For this most horrid visitation is 
Beyond endurance of the boldest mind. 
In flesh and blood enrob'd.— It takes no heed. 
But fix'dly glares upon me as before. 

1 speak to empty air : it can be nothing. 
Is it not spme delusion of tiie eyes ? 
(rzMing his eyes very hard, and rousing him- 
self.) 

Ah ! still the hideous semblance is before me. 
Plain as at first. I cannot suffer this ! 
(runs to the lamps, and taking one in each 

hand, rtishes foricard in despair to the door- 

7cay.) 
They are all gone ! Before the searching 

light 
Resolv'd to nothing ! 



202 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



Enter Hexulf and Alwy. 

JCthtv. (tii.rning hastily upon hearing them 
enter behind him.) 
Ha ! is it you ? Most happily you come ! 
Welcome you are, most welcome ! 

Mwy. Thanks to you, good my Lord ! but 
on my life 
This holy bishop and myself are come 
Unwillingly, with most untoward tidings. 
Ethw. Well, use not many words : what 

now befals .-' 
Hex. The rebel Hereulf and his thralled 
mates 
Have, with more strength than human hands 
may own, 

For that the holy church 

Ethw. Well, well, what meanest thou .' 
And what should follow this .'' 
Mwy. They've broke their prison walls, and 

are escap d. 
Ethw. I am glad on't ! be it so ! In faith 
I am glad ! 
We have shed blood enough. 

Mwy. Nay, but, my Lord, unto their towers 
of strength 
They will return ; where bruiting abroad 
Their piteous tale, as 'nighted travellers 
To the false plaining of some water fiend. 
All men will turn to them ; nor can your 

troops 
In safety now begin their northern march 
With such fell foes behind them. 
Ethw. (roused.) Ay, thou say 'st true ; it is 
a damned let ! 
Here falls another rock to bar my way. 
But I will on ! Come, let us instantly 
Set out, and foil them ere they gather strength. 
Mwy. This would be well, but that within 
these walls 
Some of their faithful friends are still confin'd, 
Who in our absence might disturbance breed, 
As but a feeble guard can now be spar'd 
To hold the castle. How shall this be settled ? 
Shall we confine them in the stronger vaults ? 
Ethw. (fiercely.) No, no ! I'll have no 
more imprisonments ! 
Let them be slain ; yea all : even to a man ! 
This is no time for weak uncertain deeds. 
Saw you not Edmar as you hither came ? 
Mwy. We saw him with a stranger much 
engaged. 
By a faint lamp, near to the eastern tower. 
Ethw. Then follow me, and let us find him 

out. 
Hex. We follow you, my Lord. 
Ethw. (as he is about to go out, turning has- 
tilij round to Alwy.) 
Bear thou a light. 

My house is like a faintly mooned cave. 
And hateful shadows cross each murky aisle. 
[Exeunt, Alwy bearing a light. 

Scene in. — the evening: awood with 

A VIEW OF ETHWAI.D's CASTLE SEEN 
thro' THE TREES. 

Enter Hereulf disguised like a country hind : 



enter to him, by another path, a ThaNe, dis- 
guised also. 

Her. Welcome, my friend I art thou the 
first to join nie .' 
This as I guess should be th' appointed time : 
For o'er our heads have passed on homeward 

wing 
Dark flights of rooks, and daws and flock- 
ing birds. 
Wheeling aloft with wild dissonant screams ; 
And from each hollow glen and river's bed, 
The white mist slowly steals in fleecy wreaths 
Up the dark wooded banks. And yet, me- 

thinks. 
The deeper shades of ev'ning come not after, 
As they are wont, but day is lengthen'd out 
Most strangely. 

Thane. Seest thou those paly streams of 
shiv'ring light 
So widely spread along the northern sky ? 
They to the twiliglit grey that brightness lend 
At which thou wonderest. Look up, I pray 
" thee ! 
Her. (turning and looking up.) 
What may it mean ? it is a beauteous light : 
Thane. In truth, I know not. Many a time 
have 1 
On hill and heath beheld the changeful face 
Of awful night : I've seen the moving stars 
Shoot rapidly athwart the sombre sky. 
Red fiery meteors in the welkin blaze. 
And sheeted lightnings gleam ; but ne'er be- 
fore 
Saw I a sight like this. It is belike 
Some sign portentous of our coming fate : 
Had we not better pause and con awhile 
This daring scene, ere yet it be too late .' 
Her. No, by this brave man's sword ! not 
for an hour 
W^ll I the glorious vengeful deed delay, 
Tho' heaven's high dome were flaming o'er 

my head. 
And earth beneath me shook. If it be aught 
Portentious, it must come from higher powers; 
For demons ride but on the lower clouds. 
Or raise their whirlwinds in the nether air. 
All blessed spirits still must favour those 
Who war on virtue's side : therefore, I say, 
Let us march boldly to the glorious work : 
It is a sign foretelling Ethwald's fall. 
Now for our valiant friends ; they must be near. 
Ho! holla, ho! 

Enter, by different paths in the wood, the oth- 
er Chiefs, disguised, and gather round Here- 
ulf, he receiving tliem joyfully. 

Welcome ! all welcome ! you good Thane, 

and you, 
And ev'ry valiant soul, together leagued 
In this bold enterprize Well are we met. 
So far we prosper ; and my glowing heart 
Tells me our daring shall be nobly crown'd. 
Now move we clieerly on our way : Ijehold 
Those frowning towers, where, e'erthe morn- 
ing watch. 
That shall be done, for wiiich, e'en in our 
graves, 



ETHWALD : A TRAGEDY. 



203 



Full many a gen'rous Mercian, yet unborn, 
Shall bless our honour'd names. 

Chiefs, {speaking all together.) We follow 

you, brave Hereulf. 
First Chief. Ay, with true heart, or good 

or ill betide, 
We'll follow you. 

Her. Come on ! ere this, with fifty chosen' 

men. 
Our trusty colleague, near the northern gate. 
Attends our signal. Come, ye gen'rous few ; 
Ye who have groan'd in the foul dungeon's 

gloom, 
Whose gen'rous bosoms have indignant heav'd 
To see free men beneath th' oppressor's yoke 
Like base-born villains press'd ! Now comes 

the hour 
Of virtuous vengeance : on our side in secret 
Beats ev'ry Mercian heart : the tyrant now 
Trusts not to men : nightly within his cham- 
ber 
The watch-dog guards his couch, the only 

friend 
He now dare trust, but shall not guard it long. 
Follow my steps, and do the gen'rous deeds 
Of valiant freemen : Heaven is on our side. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — an open space within the 

WALLS OF THE CASTLE, FRONTING ONE 
OF THE gates: THE STAGE DARKENED, 
AND THE SKY LIGHTED UP WITH THE 
AURORA BOREALIS, VERT BRIGHT. 

Enter by opposite sides Two OfFiCERs of the 
castle. 
First Off. Ha ! is it thee, my friend .' 
Thou'st left thy post, I guess, as well as I, 
To view this awful sky. Look over head, 
Where like a mighty dome, from whose bright 

centre 
Shoot forth those quiv'ring rays of vivid light. 
Moving with rapid change on every side, 
Swifter than flitting thought, the heavens ap- 
pear ! 
Whilst o'er the west in paler brightness gleam 
Full many a widely undulating tide 
Of silver light; and the dark low'ring east, 
Like to a bloody mantle stretched out. 
Seems to conceal behind its awful shade 
Some dread commotion of the heavenly pow- 
ers. 
Soon to break forth — some grand and un- 
known thing. 
Second Off. It is an awful sight ! what may 
it mean ^ 
Doth it not woes and bloody strife foretell .-' 
I've heard my father talk of things like this. — 
When the king's passing sickness shall be 

gone, 
Which has detain'd him from his purpos'd 

march 
Against the rebel chiefs, doubt not, my friend. 
We shall have bloody work. 

First Off. Ay, but ere that, mayhap, the 
man of blood 
May bleed ; and Mercia from the tyrant's 
grasp — 



Second Off. Hush, hush ! thou art unwise : 

some list'ning ear 

First Off. And if there should, what dan- 
ger ? all men now 
Harbour such secret thoughts ; and those who 

once 
His youthful valour lov'd and warlike feats, 
Now loath his cruelty. I'll tell thee something, 
(draicing nearer him mysteriously.) 
Second, Off. {frightened.) Hush, hush ! I 
will not hear thee ! hold thy tongue ! 
What will't avail, when on the bloody stake 
Thy head is fix'd, that all men think as thou 

dost; 
And he who fix'd thy cruel doom to-day 
Shall die to-morrow .'' 

First Off. I'm mute, my friend : and now 
I plainly see 
How he may lord it o'er a prostrate land. 
Who trembles in his iron tower the while, 
With but a surly mastiff for his friend. 

Second Off'. Nay, do not speak so loud. 
What men are these ? 
Who pass the gate just now .'' shall we not 

stop them .' 
Enter some of the leagued Chiefs in disguise 
through the gate. 
First Off. No, do not trouble them. They 
are, I guess. 
Some 'nighted rustics frighten'd with the sky, 
Who seek the shelter of man's habitation. 
In such an awful hour men crowd together, 
As gathering sea-fowl flock before a storm. 
With such a welkin blazing o'er our heads. 
Shall men each other vex.' e'en let them pass. 

Enter a crowd of frightened Women and Chil- 
dren. 
Second Off. See what a crowd of women 
this way come, 
With crying children clinging to their knees, 
And infants in their arms! How now, good 

matrons ? 
Where do you run .'' 

First Wom. O do not stop us ! to Saint Al- 
ban's shrine 
We run: there will we kneel and lift our hands. 
For that his holy goodness may protect us 
In this most awful hour. 

Sec. Worn. On, sisters,* on ! 
The fiery welkin rages o'er our heads. 
And we are sinful souls : O quicklj?^ move ! 
[Exeunt Women and. Children. 
Sec. Off. I also am, alack ! a sinful soul : 
I'll follow them, and pray for mercy too. 
First Off. I'll to the northern wall, from 
whence the heavens 
In full expanse are seen. [Exeunt severally. 

Scene V. — ethwald's apartment: he 

IS discovered SITTING EY HIS COUCH, 
WITH HIS ELBOWS RESTING UPON HIS 
KNEES, AND SUPPORTING HIS HEAD 
BETWEEN BOTH HIS HANDS ; THE 
Q.UEEN STANDING BY HIM, 

Q?/. Why sit you thus, my Lord! it is not 
well : 



201 



ETHWALD ; A TRAGEDY. 



It wears your strength ; I pray you go to rest. 

(« pause, and he makes no answer.) 

These nightly watcliings much retard your cure 

Be then advis'd ! (a pause, and he ■stilL takes 
no notice.) 

Why are you thus unwilling ? 

The tower is barr'd, and all things are secure. 
Ethw. How goes the hour ? is it the se- 
cond watch ? 
Qm. No : near the window now, I heard the 
guard 

Exchange the word: the first is but half spent. 
Ethw. And does the fearful night still lie 
before nie 

In all its hideous length .'' {rising up with emo- 
tion.) 

O ye successive terms of gloomy quiet ! 

Over my mind ye pass, like rolling waves 

Of dense oppression ; whilst deep underneath 

Lie all his nobler powers and faculties 

O'erwhelmed. If such dark shades must 
henceforth cross 

My checker'd life with still returning horrours, 

let me rest in the foul reptile's hole, 
And take from me the being of a man ! 

Qu. Too much thou givest way to racking 
thought : 
Take this : it is a draught by cunning skill 
Compounded curiously, and strongly charm'd; 
With secret virtue fill'd — it soothes the mind. 
And gives the body rest, (offering him a cup. 
Ethw. Say'st thou .' then in good sooth I 
need it much. 

1 thank thee too ; thou art a careful wife. 
(Takes the cup, and, as he is about toput it to 

his lips, stops short and looks suspiciously 
at her.) 
It has, niethinks, a strange unkindly smell. 
Taste it thyself: dost thou not take my mean- 
ing .■" 
Do thou first drink of it. 

Qti. I am in health, my Lord, and need it not. 
Ethw. By the dread powers of darkness, 
thou shalt drink it ! 
Ay, to the very dregs ! 

Qu. What, would you cast on me such vile 
suspicions. 
And treat a royal princess like your slave ? 
Ethw. And so thou art. Thou rear'st thy 
stately neck. 
And whilst I list, thou flarest in men's eyes 

A gorgeous queen ; but unto me thou art 

I do demand thee, drink it to the dregs. 

Q«. {subdued, and lifting the cup to her lips.) 
Then be convinced how wrongful are thy 
thoughts. 
Ethw. {preventing her.) Forbear, I am too 
slightly mov'd to anger. 
I should have known the being of thy state 
Is all too closely with my fortune hnk'd. 
Give me the cup. Thou say'st it soothes the 

mind .'' 
If I, indeed, could rest — {tastesit.) It tastes 

not well : 
It is a bitter drug. 

Q,u. Then give it me again: I'll hie to 
Dwina, 



And get from her that which shall make it 

sweet. 
{she walks to the door of another apartmerU, 
but as she is about to go out, Ethwald hur- 
ries after her, and catches her by the arm.) 
EthiD. Thou shalt not go and leave me 

thus alone. 
Qm. I'll soon return again, and all around 
thee 
Is light as noon-day. 

Ethw. Nay, nay, good wife ! it rises now 
before me 
In the full blaze of light. 

Qu. Ha ! what mean'st thou ? 
Ethw. The faint and shadowy forms, 
That in obscurity were wont to rise 
In sad array, are with the darkness fled. 
But what avails the light.'' for now, since 

sickness 
Has press'd upon my soul, in my lone mo- 
ments. 
E'en in the full light of my torch-clad walls, 
A horrid spectre rises to my sight. 
Close by my side, and plain and palpable. 
In all good seeming and close circumstance, 
As man meets man. 

Qm. Mercy upon us ! What form does it 

wear ? 
Ethw. My murder'd brother's form. 
He stands close by my side : his ghastly head 
Shakes horridly upon itssever'd neck. 
As if new from the heads-man's stroke ; it 

moves 
Still as I move ; and when I look upon it, 
It looks — No, no ! I can no utterance find 
To tell thee how it looks on me again. 

Qm. Yet, fear not now : I shall not long be 
absent ; 
And thou may'st hear my footsteps all the 

while. 
It is so short a space. [Exit Queen. 

Ethw. {returning to the middle of the stage.) 
I'll fix my steadfast eyes upon the ground. 
And turn to other things my tutor'd 

thoughts 
Intently, {after pausing for a little while, 
with his clenched hands crossed upon 
his breast, and his eyes fixed upon 
the ground.) 
It may not be : I feel upon my mind 
The horrid sense that preludes still its coming. 
Elburga ! ho, Elburga ! {putting his hand be- 
fore his eyes, and calling out with a 
strong voice of fear.) 



Enter Queen in haste. 

Qu. Has't come again .'' 

Ethw. No; but I felt upon my pausing soul 

The sure and horrid sense of its approach. 

Hadst thou not quickly come, it had ere now 

Been frowning by my side. The cup, the 

cup. {drinks eagerly.) 

Qm. Heaven grant thee peace ! 
Wilt thou not send unto the holy priest, 
To give thee ghostly comfort ? 

Ethic, {shaking his head.) Away, away ! to 
thee and to thy priests 



ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY. 



205 



I have, alas ! lent too much heed already. 
Qu. Let not your noble spirit thus be 
shent ! 
Still bear good heart ! these charmed drugs 

full soon 
Will make you strong and vigrous as be- 
fore; 
And in the rough sport of your northern war 
You will forget these dreadful fantasies. 
Ethw. Ay, thou speak'st wisely now : me- 
thinks I still 
In the embattled field, 'midst circling hosts, 
Could do the high deeds of a warlike king ; 
And what a glorious field now opens to me ! 
But oh this cursed bar ! this ill-timed sick- 
ness ; 
It keeps me back ev'n like a bitted steed. 
But it was ever thus ! What have avail'd 
My crimes, and cares, and blood, and iron 
toil ? 
Qu. What have avail'd .' art thou not king 

of Mercia ? 
Etkio. Ay, ay, Elburga ! 'tis enough for thee 
To tower in senseless state, and be a queen ; 
Butth' expanded and aspiring soul, 
To be but still the thing it long has been. 
Is misery, e'en tho' enthron'd it were 
Under the scope of high imperial state. 
O, cursed hindrance ! blasting fiends breathe 

on me. 
Putt'st thou not something in thy damned 

drugs 
That doth retard my cure .' I might ere this 
With cased limbs have strode the clanging 

field, 
And been myself again. — Hark ! some one 
comes. (listening with alarm.) 

Qu. Be not disturb'd, it is your faithful 
groom. 
Who brings the watch-dog ; all things are se- 
cure. 
Ethw. Nay, but I heard the sound of other 
feet. 
(running to the door, and pushing in a great 

bar.) 
Say, who art thou without .-' 

f^oice icithout. Your groom, my Lord, who 

brings your faithful dog. 
Ethw. (to Queen.) Didst thou not hear the 

sound of other feet .'' 
Qu. No, only his; your mind is too suspic- 
ious. 
Ethw. in his countenance have mark'd of 
late 
That which I like not : were this dreary night 
But once o'ermaster'd, he shall watch no 

more. 
(opens the door suspiciously, and enters an arm- 
ed man, leading in a great watch-dog : the 
door is shut again hastily, and the bar is re- 
placed.) 
(to the dog.) Come, rough and surly friend ! 
Thou only dost remain on whom my mind 
Can surely trust. I'll have more dogs so 
tiain'd. 
(looking steadfastly at the Groom.) 
Thy face is pale ; thou hast a haggard look : 



Where hast thou been? (seizing him by the 

neck.) 
Answer me quickly ! Say, where hast thou 
been ? 
Gr. Looking upon the broad and fearful sky. 
Qu. What sayst thou ? 
Gr. The heavens are all a flaming o'er our 
heads. 
And fiery spears are shiv'ring thro' the air. 
Ethw. Hast thou seen this .^ 
Gr. Ay, but our holy saint ! 
Qu. It is some prodigy, dark and porten- 
tous. 
Gr. A red and bloody mantle seems out- 
stretch'd 

O'er the wide welkin, and 

Ethw. Peace, damned fool ! 
Tell me no more : be to thy post withdrawn. 
[^Exit Groom by a small side-door, leading 

the dog teith him. 
Ethic, (to himself, after musing for some 
time.) 
Heaven warring o'er my head ! there is in 

this 
Some fearful thing betoken'd. 
If that, in truth, the awful term is come, 
The fearful bound'ry of my mortal reach, 
O'er which I must into those regions pass 
Of horrour and despair, to take my place 
With those who do their blood-earn'd crowns 

exchange 
For ruddy circles of devouring fire; 
Where hopeless woe and gnashing agony 
Writhe in the dens of torment: where things be, 
Yet never imaged in the thoughts of man, 

Dark, horrible, unknown 

I'll mantle o'er my head, and think no more. 

(covers his headivith his cloak, and sinks doion 

upon the couch.) 

Qu. Nay, rather stretch you on the fleecy bed 

Ethic. Rest, if thou canst : I do not hinder 

thee. 
Qu. Then truly I will lean my head a while. 
I am o'erspent and weary, (leanson the couch.) 

Ethw. (hastily uncovering his face.) 
Thou must not sleep : watch with me and be 

silent ; 
It is an awful hour ! (a long pause, then Eth- 
wald starting up from the couch with 
alarm.) 
I hear strange sounds ascend the winding 
stairs. 
Qu. I hear them too. 
Ethw. Ha ! dost thou also hear it ? 
Then it is real, (listening.) I hear the clash 

of arms. 
Ho, guard ! come forth. 

Re-enter Groom. 

Go rouse my faithful dog ; 
Dark treason is upon us. 

Gr. (disappears, and then re-entering.) 
He sleeps so sound, my Lord, I cannot rouse 
him. 
Ethw. Then, villain, I'm betray'd ! thou 
hast betray'd me ! 
But set thy brawny strength against that door, 



206 



ETHWALD t A TRAGEDY. 



And bar tliem out: iftliou but seem'st to flinch, 

This sword is in tliy heart. 

A noise of armed men is now heard at the door, 
endeavouring to break it open, whilst Eth- 
WALD and the Groom set their shoulders to 
it to prevent them. Enter Dwina hastily 
froin an inner apartment, and with the (Iukek 
assists in putting their strength also to the 
door as the force without increases. The door 
is at last broken open, and Hereulf, with 
the Rebel Chiefs, burst in, sword in hand. 

Her. {to Ethwald.) 

Now, thou fell ruthless lion, that hast made 

With bloody rage thy native forest waste ! 

The spearmen are upon thee ! to the strife 

Turn thy rough breast : thou canst no more 
escape. 
Ethw. Quick to thy villain's work, thou 
wordy coward, 

Who in the sick man's chamber seek'st the fame 

Thou dar'st not in th' embattled field attain ! 

I am prepar'd to front thee and thy mates, 

Were ye twice nuraber'd o'er, {sets his back 
to a pillar, and puts himself into a 
posture of de_fence.) 
Her. The sick man's chamber ! dar'st thou, 
indeed, 

Begrimed as thou art with blood and crimes 

'Gainst man committed, human rights assume.' 

Thou art a hideous and envenom'd snake, 

Whose wounded length, even in his noisome 
hole, 

Men fiercely hunt, for love of human kind ; 

And, wert thou scotch'd to the last ring of 
life. 

E'en that poor remnant of thy curs'd existence 

Should be trod out i' th' dust. 

Ethw. Come on, thou boasting fool ! give 
tliy sword work. 

And spare thy cursed tongue. 
Her. Ay, surely will I ! 

It is the sword of noble Ethelbert ; 

Its master's blood weighs down its heavy 
strokes; 

His unseen hand directs them. 

(theyfigJit : Ethwald defends himself furious- 
ly, but at last falls, and the conspira- 
tors raise a loud shout.) 
First Ch. Bless heaven, the work is done ! 
.SVr. Ch. Now Mercia is revenged, and free- 
born men 

May rest their toil'd limbs in their peaceful 
homes. 
Third Ch. {going nearer the body.) 

Ha ! does he groan .' 

.Sec. Ch. No, he dies sullenly, and to the 
wall 

Turns his writh'd form and death-distorted 
visage. 

(a solemn pause, vihilst Ethwald, «/i!cr some 
convulsive motions, expires.) 
Her. Now hath his loaded soul gone to its 
place , 

And ne'er a pitying voice from all his kind 

Cries, " God have mercy on him !" 

Third Ch. I've vow'd to dip my weapon in 
his blood. 



First Ch. And so have I. (several of them 
advancing with their swords towards 
the body, a Young Man steps forth, 
and stretches out his arm to keep them 

off'-) 
Young Mm. My father in the British wars 
was seiz'd 
A British pris'ner, and with all he had 
Unto a Mercian chief by lot consign'd : 
Mine aged grandsire, lowly at his feet, 
Rent his gray hair : Ethwald, a youthful war- 

riour, 
Receiv'd the old man's pray'r, and set him 

free ; 
Yea, even to the last heifer of his herds 
Restor'd his wealth. 

For this good deed, do not insult the fallen ! 
He was not ruthless once. 
{They all draw hack, and retire from the body. 
The Queen, who has, during the fight, <^c. re- 
mained at a distance, agitated with terrour 
and suspense, noio comes forward to Hereulf 
witli the air of one who supplicates for mer- 
cy, a.nd Dwina, follotcing close behind her, 
falls upon her knees, as if to beseech him in 
favour of her mistress.) 
Q_a. If thou of good king Oswal, thine old 
master, 

Aught of rememb'rancc hast, 

Her. I do remember ; 
And deeply grieve to think a child of his 
Has so belied her mild and gentle stock. 
N-othing hast thou to fear : in some safe place, 
In holy privacy, may'st thou repent 
The evil thou hast done : for know, proud 

dame. 
Thou art beneath our vengeance. 
But as for thine advisers, that dark villain. 
The artful Alwy, and that impious man 
Who does dishonour to his sacred garb. 
Their crimes have earned for them a bitter 

meed. 
And they shall have it. 

.Sec. Ch. Shall we not now the slumb'ring 
Mercians rouse, 
And tell our countrymen that they are free 
From the oppressor's yoke ? 

Her. Yes, thou say'st well : thro' all the 
vexed land 
Letev'ry heart bound at the joyful tidings ! 
Thus from his frowning height the tyrant 

falls, 
Like a dark mountain, whoso interior fires, 
Raging in ceaseless tumult, have devour'd 
Its own foundations. Sunk in sudden ruin' 
To the tremendous gulph, in the vast void 
No friendly rock rears its opposing head 
To stay the dreadful crash. 
The joyful hinds, with grave and chasten'd 

joy, 

Point to the traveller the hollow vale 
Where once it stood, and the now-sunned cots^ 
Where, near its base, they and their little ones 
Dwelt trembling in its deep and fearful shade. 

[Exeunt. 



THE SECOND MARRIAGE 

A COMEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN: 
Seabright. 
Beaumont, a worthy clergyman, who is his 

friend and hrother-in-law. 
Lord Allcrest. 
Sir Crafty Supplecoat. 
Plausible, a schemer. 
Prowler, his knavish follmoer. 
William Beaumont, son to Beaumont. 
Morgan, uncle to Senbxight's first wife. 
Robert. 

Gardner, Sharp, and Servants, S^c. 

WOMEN: 

Lady Sarah, sister to Lord Allcrest. 
Sophia daughter to Seabright. 
Mrs. Beaumont. 
Pry, Lady Sarah's icoman. 

Landlady, Servants, 8^c. 
Scene : Seabright's house in the country, not 

far from London, and a small country Inn 

near it. 



ACT L 
Scene I. — a garden: the gardener 

DISCOVERED AT WORK AMONGST SOME 
SHRUBS AND FLOWERS. 

Enter Robert hastily, calling to him as he en- 
ters. 

Rah. Stop, stop. Gardener ! What are you 
about there ? My mistress's rose-trees rooted 
out of her favourite' nook thus.' Get out of 
this spot with your cursed wheel-barrow ! If 
there were one spark of a christian in your 
heart, you would pluck the last hair off your 
bare scalp rather than root out these shrubs. 

Gar. Softly and civilly, Master Robert; and 
answer me one question first. — If I intend to 
remain gardener in this famil}^, and make my 
pot boil and my family thrive as Thave done, 
whether will it be wiser in me, do you think, 
to obey your orders or my master's .-' 

Rob. And did he order you to do this ^ 

Gar. As sure as I hold this spade in mv 
hand. 

Rob. I should as soon have.thought of tear- 
ing the turf from my mother's grave as of do- 
ing this thing. Well, well ; perhaps he has 
forgot that she liked them. 

Gar. Now I rather think he remember'd, 
when he gave me the orders, that another lady I 



likes them not ; and a dead woman's fancy 
match'd against a living woman's freak, with 
a middle-aged widower, hear ye me, who has 
just pull'd the black coat off his back, has but 
a sorry chance, Robert. 

Rob. Ay, and he has pull'd the black coat 
too soon off his back. But away with it ! — I'll 
think no more of what you say — it is impos- 
sible. 

Gar. May I never handle a spade again, if 
she did not squint to this direct spot, with her 
horrid-looking grey eyes, the last time she 
walked thro' the garden, saying it was a mass 
of confusion that ought tobeclear'd away, 
and he gave me the orders for doing it the very 
next morning. 

Rob. Who could have believed this .' who 
could have believed this but a few months ago, 
when she rambled thro" these' walks, v ith "all 
her white-frock'd train gamboling round her i 
Gar. Nay, good Robert, don't be so down 
o' the mouth about it : the loss of his wife, and 
an unlook'd-for legacy of twenty thousand 
pounds, may set a man's brains a working 
upon new plans. There is nothing very 
wonderful in that, man. He'll get his lady- 
wife and the borough together, with a power 
of high relations, you know, and we shall all 
be fine folks by and by. — Thou wilt become 
master-butler or gentleman-valet, or some- 
thing of that kind, and I shall be head gard- 
ener, to be sure, with a man or two to obey 
my orders : we shan't be the same pains-taking 
folks that we have been, I warrant you, when 
he is a parliament man. 

Rob. Thou'rt always looking after some- 
thing for thine own advantage, and that puts 
all those foolish notions into thy noddle. No 
no ; he has lived too sweetly in his own quiet 
home, amongst the rustling of his own trees 
and the prattling of his own infants, to go now 
into the midst of all that shuffling and'chano-- 
ing and making of speeches. He'll never 
become a parliament man. 

Gar. "NVell, then, let him marry Lady Sarah 
for love, if he please; I'll neither make nor 
meddle in the matter. If she keep a o-ood 
house, and give good victuals and drink to 
the people in it, I'll never trouble my head 
about it. 

Rob. Out upon thee, man, with thy vict- 
uals and tliy drink ! Thou'rt worser than a 
hog. VVeli should I like, if it were not for 
the sake of better folks than thyself, to see 
thy greedy chaps exercised upon her feeding. 
Gar. What, is she niggardly then, and so 
fine a lady too ' 



203 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



Rob. Niggardly ! she'll pull off her wide 
hoop, and all them there flounces that people 
go to court in, to search over the house for 
the value of a candle's end, rather than any 
of the poor devils belonging to her should 
wrong her of a doit's worth. Thou'lt have rare 
feeding, truly, when she comes amongst us. 

Gar. Heaven forbid it, then ! No wonder 
thou'rt anxious she should not come here. I 
always wonder'd what made thee so concern'd 
about it. 

Rob. And dost thou think, swine that thou 
art, I am concern'd for it upon this account .' 
Thou deservest to be fed on husks and gar- 
bage all thy life for having such a thought. 
I, who was the friend, I may say the relation, 
of my good mistress (for thou knowest 1 am 
her foster brother ; and when I look upon her 
poor children playing about, 1 feel as tho' they 
were my own flesh and blood. It is not that 
I boast of the connection : God knows I am 
as humble as any body ! 

Gar. Ay, no doubt; and a rare good thing 
it is, this same humility. I know a poor ass, 
grazing on the common, not far off", that, to 
my certain knowledge, is foster brother to a 
very great lord, and yet, I must say that for 
him, I never saw him prick up his ears or 
even shake his tail one bit the more for it in 
my life. By my certies ! he must be a very 
meek and sober-minded ass ! 

(singing and gathering up his tools, ^c.) 

Take this in your hand for me, man ; I'm 
going to another part of the garden, (holding 
out. something for Robert to carry.) 

Rob. (pushing away his hand angrily.) 
Take care of it yourself, fool : you would sing 
tho' your father were upon the gallows. 

Gar. I crave your worship's pardon ! I 
should have whined a little, to be sure, to 
have been better company to you. (looking 
off the stage.) But here comes a good man 
who frowns upon nobody ; the worthy rector 
fo Easterdown : I'll go and bid him welcome, 
for he likes to see a poor fellow hold up his 
head before him, and speak to him like a man. 

Rob. You bid him welcome, indeed ! stand 
out of the way : I'll bid him welcome myself. 

He is as good as my own No matter what. 

He is married to my good mistress's sister j ay, 
and his own father christen'd me too. I'm glad 
he is come. You go to him indeed ! 

Enter Mr. Beaumont. 

O Sir ! you're welcome to this sad place. 

Bea. I thank you, honest Robert ; how do 
you do ? 

Rob. So, so ; I'm obliged to you for the fa- 
vour of asking. Woe is me. Sir I but this be 
a sad place since you came last among us. 

Bea. A sad change, indeed, my good friend, 
and you seem to have felt it too. You look 
thin and alter'd, Robert. 

Rob. I ha'n't been very merry of late, and 

that makes a body look (passing his hand 

across his eyes.) 

Bea. (shaking his hc/id.) Ay, what must 



thy poor master be, then, since it is even so 
with thee ? Poor man, it griev'd me to think 
that I could not be with him on the first shock 
of his distress; but illness and business of im- 
portance made it impossible for me to leave 
Yorkshire. How does he do.' I hope you 
look cheerfully before him, and do all that 
you can to comfort him. 

Rob. Indeed I should have been very glad, 
in my homely way, to have done what I could 
to comfort him ; but, I don't know how it is, 
he gets on main well without, sir. 

Bea. (surjmsed.) Does he .? — I'm very glad 
to hear it. I love him for that, now : it is a 
noble exertion in him ; he has a great merit 
in it, truly. 

/?o6. Humph, humph. (a pause.) 

Bea. What were you going to say, my good 
Robert ? 

Rob. Nothing, Sir ; I was only clearing my 
throat. 

Bea. How does he sleep, Robert .'' 

Rob. I can't say. Sir, not being present 
when he's a-bed, you know. 

Bea. How does he eat, then .' little rest and 
little food must, I fear, have brought him very 
low. 

Rob. Nay, as for the matter of his eating, I 
can't say but I find as good a notch made in 
the leg of mutton, when he dines alone, as 
there used to be. 

Bea. Well, that's good. But I fear he is 
too much alone. 

Rob. No, Sir ; he has dined out a pretty 
deal of late. He does, indeed, walk up and 
down the shady walk by the orchard, and talk 
to himself, often enough. 

Bea. (alarmed.) Does he .' that is a sign of 
the deepest sorrow : I must speak to him ; I 
must put books into his hands. 

Rob. O , Sir, there's no need of that ; he has 
a book in his hand often enough. 

Bea. And what kind of books does he read ? 

Rob. Nay, it is always the same one. 

Bea. Well, he can't do better : there is but 
one book in the world that can't be too oft«n 
in a man's hand. 

Rob. Very true"; Sir, but it is not that one 
tho'. — 1 thought as you do myself, and so 1 
slyly look'd over his shoulder one morning to 
be sure of it; but I saw nothing in it but all 
about the great people at court, and the great 
offices they hold. 

Bea. You astonish me, Robert. His heavy 
loss I fear has bewildered his wits. Poor man ! 
poor man ! and all the sweet children too ! 

Rob. Yes, Sir, they — will feel — 

Bea. What would you say, my friend .' 

Rob. Nothing, Sir. This vile neckcloth 
takes me so tight round the throat, an' a 
plague to it ! 

Gar. (coming foricard with a broad grin) 
God bless you, Sir ! I be glad to see you here. 
How does your good lady and master William 
do .' He is grown a fine young gentleman 
now, I warrant : he, he, he, he, he ! 

Rob. (to Gar. angrily.) Can't you ask a 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



209 



gentleman how he does, fool, without putting 
that damned grin upon your face ? 

Bea. Why, my friend Robert, what words 
are these you make use of ? 

Rob. True, Sir, I should not have used 
them : but when a body is vexed he'll be an- 

fry, and when a body is angry, good sooth ! 
e'll e'en bolt out with the first word that 
comes to him, though he were a saint. 

Bea. Too true, Robert ; but long before a 
body becomes a saint, he is very seldom vex- 
ed, and still seldonier angry at any thing. 

Rob. God bless you, Sir ! I know very 
well 1 a'n't so good as I should be, and I wish 
from my heart I was better. 

Bea. Give me your hand, honest Robert; 
you will soon be better if you wish to be so, 
and it is a very pleasant progress when once 
it is fairly begun. (Looking off the stage.) I 
think I see your master at a distance. Good 
day to you I good day to you. Gardener ! 

[Exeunt severally. 

Scene II. — a parlour, with a door 

OPENING INTO THE GARDEN. SEA- 
BRIGHT AND BEAUMONT ARE SEEN 
WALKING TOGETHER IN THE GARDEN. 
BEA. TALKING TO SEA. AS THEY EN- 
TER. 

Bea. {continuing to talk.) I must indeed 
confess, my dear friend, you had every thing 
that this world can bestow ; a moderate for- 
tune, with health to enjoy it ; the decent, 
modest tranquillity, of private life, and the 
blessings of domestic harmony. I must, in- 
deed, confess you were a happy man. (paus- 
es and looks at Sea. who says nothing.) 
Your measure of good things was complete ; 
it was impossible to add to it ; there was no 
more for you to desire on this side of heaven. 
(pauses again.) 

Sea. (answering very tardily.) I had, in- 
deed, many of the comforts of life. 

Bea. Many of the comforts of life ! you 
had every thing the heart of man can desire ; 
and, pardon me, you could afford to lose part 
of your felicity, dear as that part might be, 
and still retain enough to make life worth the 
cherishing. To watch over your rising fam- 
ily ; to mark the hopeful progress of their 
minds ; to foster every good disposition and 
discourage every bad one found there : this, 
my friend, is a noble, an invigorating task, 
most worthy of a man. 

Sea.. It is certainly the duty of every man 
to attend to the education of his children : 
their fortunes in the world depend upon it. 

Bea. (looking displeased at him.) Poo ! their 
fortunes in that world from which this will 
appear but like a nest of worms, a hole for 
grubs and chrysalises, that world which is 
our high and native home, depend upon it. 
(walking up and doiim disturbed, and then re- 
turning to Sea. viith a self-upbraiding look.) 
26 



Forgive me, Seabright ; you know I am 
sometimes thus, but my spark is soon extin- 
guished. I am glad — I ought to be glad to 
see you so composed. It is a noble conquest 
you have gained over your feelings, and what 
must it not have cost you ! Give me your 
hand, and be not thus constrained with me : 
1 know the weakness of human nature, and 
dearly do I sympathize with you. 

Sea. You are very kind, my friend ; but 
you have travelled far ; you must want re- 
freshment ; let me order something, (going 
to the door and calling a Servant, to whom he 
gives orders.) 

Bea. (aside.) Well, there is something here 
I don't understand. But I am wrong, per- 
haps : some people can't bear to have the sub- 
ject of their sorrow touched upon : I'll talk 
to him of other things. — (Aloud to Sea. as he 
returns from the door.) Your old acquaint- 
ance, Asby of Gloucestershire, called upon 
me a day or two before I lefl home, and in- 
quired kindly after you. He is a very rich 
man now ; he lias purchased the great estate 
of Carriswood, near his native place, and is 
high sheriff of the county. 

Sea. (becoming suddenly animated.) What, 
Asby .' my old school-fellow Asby .■' that is 
a great rise, by my soul ! The estate of Car- 
riswood, and high sheriff of the county I 
What interest has pushed him .-' what con- 
nexions has he made .■* has he speculated 
with his money .' how has he advanced him- 
self .? 

Bea. I can't very well tell you : he has 
gone on, like many others, turning, and 
scraping, and begging ; and managing great 
people's matters for them, till he has become 
one of the most considerable men in that 
part of the country. 

Sea. He must be a clever fellow. We used 
to think him stupid at school, but we have 
been dev'lishly deceived. 

Bea. No, you have not, for he is stupid still. 
His brother, the poor curate of Crofton, is a 
clever man. 

Sea. (contemptuojisly.) The poor curate of 
Crofton ! One of those clever men, I sup- 
pose, who sit with their shoes dov/n o' the 
heel, by their own study fire, brooding o'er 
their own hoard of ideas, without ever being 
able from their parts or their learning to pro- 
duce one atom's worth of good to themselves 
or their families. I have known many such : 
but let me see a man, who, from narrow and 
unfavorable beginnings, shapes out his own 
way in this changing world to wealth and dis- 
tinction, and, by my faith ! he will be wise 
enough for me. 

Bea. My friend, you become animated ; 
I am happy to see you so much interested in 
the fortune of others ! it is a blessed disposi- 
tion. I have something also to tell you of 
your old friend Malton, which I am sure will 
give you pleasure. 

Sea. What, he has got a fortune too, I sup- 
pose, and is standing for the county. 



210 



SECOND MARRIAGE: A COMEDY. 



Bea. No ; something better than that, my 
friend. 

Sea. Ha! Well, some people get on timaz- 
ingly- 

Bea. It is amazing, indeed, for it was alto- 
gether hopeless. You remember his only son, 
the poor little boy that was so lame and so 
sickly .' 

Sea. Yes, I'do. 

Bea. Well, from some application, which I 
cannot remember at present, the sinews of 
his leg have recovered their proper tone again, 
and he is growing up as healthy a comely 
looking lad as you can see. 

Sea. O, that is what you meant — I am glad 
to hear it, certainly ; a cripple in a family 
is not easily provided for. But pray now, 
let me understand this matter more per- 
fectly. 

Bea. I tell you 1 have forgot how they 
treated the leg, but 

Sea. (impatiently.) No, no, no ! What re- 
lations, what connexions had Ashy to push 
him.'' A man can't get on without some as- 
sistance : his family, I always understood, 
was low and distress'd. 

Bea. He had two or three ways of getting 
on, which I would not advise any friend of 
mine to follow him in ; and the worst of them 
all was making what is called a convenient 
marriage. 

Sea. (affecting to laugh.) Ha, ha, ha ! you 
are severe, Beaumont : many a respectable 
man has suffered interest to determine even 
his choice of a wife. Riches and honours 
must have their price paid for them. 

Bea. Trash and dirt ! I would not have a 
disagreeable vixen to tyrannise over my fam- 
ily for the honors of a peerage. 

Sea. Well, well ! people think differently 
upon most subjects. 

Bea. They do indeed ; and it is not every 
one who thinks so delicately, and has so much 
reason to do so, upon this subject, as we 
have, my dear Seabright. Our wives — 

Sea. (interrupting him.) And he comes in 
for the county, you say .'' 

Bea. No, no, Seabright! you mistake me: 
high sheriff of the county, I said. How you 
do interest yourself in the fortunes of this 
man ! 

Sea. And what should surprise you in this .' 
By Heaven, there is nothing so interesting to 
me as to trace the course of a prosperous man 
through this varied world ! First he is seen 
like a little stream, wearing its shallow bed 
through the grass ; circling and winding, and 
gleanmg up its treasures from every twink- 
ling rill as it passes : farther on, the brown 
sand fences its margin, the dark rushes thick- 
en on its side : farther on still, the broad flags 
shake their green ranks, the willows bend 
their wide boughs o'er its course : and yonder, 
at last, the fair river appears, spreading its 
bright waves to the light ! 

Bea. (staring strangely on him, then turning 
away some paces, and shaking his head rueful- 



ly.) Poor man ! poor man ! his intellects are 
deranged : he is not in his senses. 

Enter a Servant. 

Sea. (to Ser.) Very well, (to Bea..) Let us 
cro to the breakfast room, Beaumont, and you'll 
find something prepared for you. (^s they 
are about to go out, the children appear at a 
distance in the garden.) 

Bea. (looking out.) Ha ! yonder are the 
children ! Blessings on them ! I must run 
and speak to them first. [Exit into the gar- 
den to the children. 

Sea. (to himself , looking contemptuously af- 
ter Bea.) Ay, go to the children ! thou art on- 
ly fit company for them ! To come here with 
his comfort and condolence full eight months 
and a half after her death — he is a mere sim- 
pleton I His wonderful dehcacy too about 
interested marriages — he is worse than a sim- 
pleton ! And my only business now, for- 
sooth, must be to stay at home and become 
schoolmaster to my own children ! — he is an 
absolute fool, (turning round and seeing the 
Servant still standing at the door.) Have you 
inquired at the village which of the^inns my 
Lord Lubberford stops at on his way to town.'* 

Ser. Yes, Sir ; but they don't know. 

Sea. But they must know. Go, and make 
farther inquiries, for I must^pay my respects 
to his Lordship as he passes. Were the fruit 
and the flowers carried to Lady Sarah thia 
morning .'' 

Ser. I don't know. Sir. 

Sea. Run to the gardener, and put him in 
mind of it. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — a library. 

Enter Seabbight, who walks several times 
slowly across the stage as if deeply engaged 
in his own mind ; then stops short with a con- 
siderable pause. 

Sea. I am now upon the threshold of dis- 
tinction, and with one step more I crOss it. 
On this side lies spiritless obscurity ; on that, 
invigorating honor. (pauses.) Member of 
Parliament ! there is magic in the words, and 
of most powerful operation. — Let that man 
find a place elsewhere ; why should I squeeze 
myself and every body round me to make 
room for him .-' Sir, he's a Member of Parlia- 
ment. — Let that fool hold his tongue there ; 
why do we silently listen to all his prosing 
stuff.' Sir, he's a Member of Parliament. — 
What ; bells ringing, children huzzaing, cor- 
poration men sweating at this rate, to wel- 
come that poor lurking creature to your town .' 
To be sure ; he's a Member of Parliament. — 
Ay , so it is ! 1 too have mixed with the igno- 
ble crowd to stare upon men thus honoured. 
I have only now to over step the bounds, and 
be myself the very thing I gazed at. (pausing 
again.) — There is indeed a toll, a price of en- 
trance that must be paid, and my heart stands 
back from it ; but there is no other way than 
this, and what I would wear I must purchase. 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



211 



O, it is well worth its price ! To be but known 
and named as filling such a place in society 
brings pleasure with it. And in the eyes of 
our early friends too, — Methinks I can see at 
this moment every curious face in my native 
village gathering about the letter-boy, as he 
sets out upon his rounds, to look with grin- 
ning admiration upon my first franks. " Free, 
Seabright;" ha, ha, ha! (laughing to him- 
self , and nibbing his hands together with great 
complacency.) 

Enter Robert. 

Sea. (turning round shortly, like one who is 
caught.) What brings you here, sirrah .'' 

Rob. You desired me to tell you. Sir, when 
Miss Seabright returned from her walk. 

Sea. {with his countenance changed.) And 
is she so soon returned .' 

Rob. Yes, Sir ; and I have told her you 
wish to speak with her. 

Sea. You have told her — 1 wish — I looked 
not for her so soon — I wish you had not — 

Rob. Sir! 

■Sea. Begone ! begone ! and say I am wait- 
ing for her. (Exit Rob. stealing a look of ob- 
servation at his master as he goes out.) — Ah ! 
here comes the hard pull ! here comes the 
sticking place ! I should have prepared her 
for this before, but my heart would not suffer 
me. O that I had employed some one else 
to tell her ! She little thinks of tliis ! 1 hear 
her coming (listening, while children's voices 
are heard without.) What ! she is bringing the 
children with her ! I hear the little one prat- 
ing as she goes. O God ! I cannot — I can- 
not ! 

[Exit, running out with much agitation. 

Enter Sophia, carrying a little boy on her back, 
and an elder boy and girl taking hold of her 
gown. 

Soph, {to the little one.) You have had a 
fine ride and a long ride, have you not.'' 

Little One. Yesh, tit. 

Soph. Come down then, boy, for your horse 
is tired. 

Little One. No, tit. 

Soph. No, tit! but you must tho.' (setting 
him down.) Stand upon your fat legs there, 
and tell me what I'm to have for all this troub- 
le of carrying you. What am 1 to have, ur- 
chin .'' 

Little One. Kish. 

Soph, (after kissing him affectionately) And 
what am I to have for these comfits I have 
saved for you .' 

Little One. Kish. 

Soph, (kissing him again.) And what am I 
to have for the little dog I bought for you this 
morning .'' 

Little One. Kish. 

Soph. What ! kish again .' Kish for every 
thing.' {kissing him very tenderly.) O you lit- 
tle rogue ! you might buy the whole world for 
such money as this, if every body loved you 
as I do. Now, children, papa is not ready to 



see us yet, I find, so in the mean time, I'll di- 
vide the little cake I promised you. (taking a 
little cake from her icork-bag, and dividing it; 
ichilst Robert, peeping in at the door and see- 
ing Seabright not there, ventures in, and stands 
for a little while looking tenderly upon Soph. 
a7id the children.) 

Rob. God bless all your sweet faces ! 

So])h. What do you want here, good Rob- 
ert.' 

Rob. Nothing — nothing. — God bless you all, 
my pretty ones ! (listening.) I hear him com- 
ing [Exit, looking piteously upon them, as he 
goes off. 

Soph. I hear papa coming. 

Little Girl. I'll run and meet him. 

Eldest Boy. Don't, Emma ; he does not like 
to play vi^ith us now ; it is troublesome to him. 

Little Girl. When mama was alive he play'd 
with us. 

Soph. Hush ! my good girl. 

Enter Seabright. 

We have been waiting for you, papa: Rob- 
ert told us you wanted to see us all together. 

Sea. Did Robert tell you so ? I wanted to 
see you alone, Sophia; but since it is so, the 
others may remain. [ have got something to 
say' to you. 

Soph. You look very grave, my dear Sir : 
have I offended you ? 

Eldest Boy. It was I who broke the china 
vase, so don't be angry with her for that. 

Sea. My brave boy, it is distress, and not an- 
ger, that makes me grave. 

Soph. And are you distress'd, papa? O 
don't be distress'd ! we will do every thing 
we can to please you. I know very well we 
can't make you so happy as when mama was 
alive ; but we'll be such good children ! we'll 
obey you, and serve you, and love you so 
much, if you will but play with us, and look 
upon us again as you used to do. 

Sea. (softened.) My dear girl, I wish I 
could make you all happy : 1 wish to raise 
your situation in the world above the pitch of 
my present confined abilities : I wish — {stops 
and is much embarrassed.) 

Soph, (kissing his hand.) My dear, dear 
father ! you say that I am your dear girl, and 
I promise you, you shall find me a good one. 
I want no better fortune in the world, than to 
live with you, and be useful to you. I can 
overlook the household matters, and order ev- 
ery thing in the family as you would like to 
have it. I want no better fortune than this : 
I shall be a happy girl and a proud girl, too, if 
you will put confidence in me. 

Sea. (taking her hand tenderly.) My sweet 
child ! this would be a dull and sombre life 
for a young girl like you : you ought now to 
be dressed and fashioned like other young 
people, and have the advantage of being in- 
troduced to the world by those who 

Soph. O no ! 1 don't care whether my gown 
be made of silk or of linen -. and as for being 



212 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



dull, never trouble your head about that; 
we shall find a way to get the better of it. 

Do you know, papa, but 1 am almost 

ashamed to tell it you. — 

Sea. What is it, my dear .' 

Soph. I have been learning to play at back- 
gammon : for you know mama and you used 
to play at it of a winter evening; and I'll 
play with you, if you'll allow me. 

Sea. O God ! O God ! this is too much ! 
(Turns from them in great agitation, and run- 
ning to the opposite side of the room, stands 
leaning his hack against the wall, whilst So- 
phia and the children gather round him.) 

Soph. My dear father ! what is the matter .' 

Eldest Boy. Are you not well, papa.' 

Sea. I am well enough ! I am well enough I 
but I have something to tell you, and I can- 
not tell it. 

Soph. For God's sake let me know what it is. 

Sea. You must know it: it is necessary 
that you should. I am {pauses.) 

Soph. A bankrupt. 

Sea. No, no, no ! I am going to be mar- 
ried. — (Sophia staggers some paces hack, and 
stands like one perfectly stupifed.) What is 
the matter, Sophia.' are you going to faint.' 

Soph. No, I shan't faiiit. 

Sea. Be not so overcome with it, my dear 
child ! it is for the good of my children I 
marry, (pauses and looks at her, but she is si- 
lent.) You, and all children in your situation, 
look upon these matters with a prejudiced 
eye. It is my great regard for you that deter- 
mines me to take this step (pauses, but she is 
silent.) Do you hear me .' Will you not speak 
to me .' 

Soph. O my poor mother ! little did I think 
when I kiss'd your cold hands, that you 
would so soon be forgotten ! 

Sea. No more of this, my dear ! No more 
of this ! It is improper ; it is painful to me. 
I have not forgotten — I love — I respect — I 
adore her memory : but I am engaged — it is 
necessary — your interest is concerned in it, 
my dear children ; and I know, my good So- 
phia, you will not add to your father's dis- 
tress by stubborn and undutiful behaviour. 

Soph. O no, my dear Sir ! if you love and 
adore her memory I am satisfied. Yet, if you 
do, how can you — Oh how canyon ! — I will 
say no more : God bless you, and give you a 
good wife ! (iceeping.) But she will never be 
so good as my mother: she will never love 
you as my mother did. 

Sea. Forbear, my good girl ! I know it very 
well: and I don't marry now to be beloved. 
But Lady Sarah is a very good woman, and 
will make me as happy as I can expect to be ; 
she is sister toLord Allcrest, you know, and 
is related to the first people of the countiy. 

Soph. Good heaven, Sir ! you can't mejin 
to marry Lady Sarah : all the world knows 
how ill-tcmper'd slie is. 

Eldest Boy. What that lady with the cun- 
ning-looking nose, and the strange staring 



eye-brows ? If she come into this house I'll 
cast my top at her. 

Soph. Hold your tongue, George ! papa is 
not so hard-hearted as to set such a woman 
over us. Come, come, children ! gather 
round, and hold up your little hands to him : 
he will have pity upon you. (the children gath- 
er round, Mnd Sophia, ^M«in^ the hands of the 
youngest child together, and holding them vp, 
kneels doicn before him.) O Sir ! have pity on 
them ! We have nobody to plead for us, and I 
cannot speak. 

Enter Robert with his face all blubbered, and 
throwing himself upon his knees by the chil- 
dren, holds up his hands most piteously. 
Rob. 0,Sir! 

Sea. (bursting into a violent rage.) What, 
sirrah ! have you been listening at the door .' 
Go from my presence this moment I 

Soph. Dear Sir! be not angry with him ! 
Sea. (putting her away.) No, no! let us 
have no more of this nonsense : I have listen'd 
too long to it already, (breaks from them and 
Exit.) 

Rob. I wish my head had been cut off be- 
fore I had come in with my ill-timed assist- 
ance ! Curse upon my stupid pate ! I de- 
serve to be hang'd for it. (beating his head 
and grasping his hair.) O my pretty ones ! 
I sent you to him that you might work on 
his heart, for I knew what he v/anted to say 
well enough, and yet I must needs thrust in 
my silly snout amongst you, to mar all ! For 
a man that can read books and cast accounts, 
and all that, to do such a trick ! I deserve to 
be cudgel'd ! 

Soph. Don't he so angry at yourself, Rob- 
ert : you meant it well, and you have always 
been so good to us ! 

Rob. Good to you ! I love you like my own 
flesh and blood, every one of you ; and if any 

body dare to do you wrong, I'll no matter 

what (clenching his fist and nodding signifi- 
cantly.) He may turn me off if he please ; 
but I'll not quit the neighbourhood : I'll 
watch over you, my pretty ones ; and hang 
me if any one shall hurt a hair of your 
heads ! 

Soph. I thank you, Robert: but don't tell 
any body : that would not be right, you know. 
Come, children ; you shall go with me to my 
own room. 

[ExEU.N'T Sophia and children by one side, and 
Exit Robert by the other, looking after them 
with tenderness and pity.) 



ACT II, 



Scene I. — before the front of sea- 
bright's house. 

Enter Plausible and Prowler. 

Plau. Do you wait for me in that farther 
walk yonder, till I come from visiting my 
subject. 



SECOND MARRIAGE ; A COMEDY. 



213 



Pro. Well, God grant he prove a good sub- 
ject ! we are woimdily in want of one at pres- 
ent. 

Plau. Don't lose courage, man ; there is 
always a certain quantity of good and of bad 
luck put into every man's lot, and the more 
of the one that has past over his head, the 
more he may expect of the other. Seabright 
has a fortune to speculate with, and some 
turn, as I have been told, for speculation: he 
is just launching into a new course of life, 
and I have a strong presentiment that I shall 
succeed with him. 

Pro. Now away with your presentiments ! 
for we have never yet had any good luck that 
has not come pop upon our heads like a snow- 
ball, from the very opposite point to our ex- 
pectation : but he has got an unexpected leg- 
acy lately ; and I have observed that a sum 
coming in this way, to a man of a certain dis- 
position , very often plays the part of a decoy- 
bird to draw away from him all the rest of his 
money ; there I rest my hopes . 

Plau. Why you talk as if I were going to 
ruin him, instead of increasing his fortune by 
my advice. 

Pro. I have seen ruin follow every man 
that has been favour'd with your advice, as 
constantly as the hind legs follow the fore 
legs of a horse, and therefore I cannot help 
thinking there must be some connexion be- 
tween them. However, I don't pretend to 
reason. Plausible; it might only be some part 
of their bad luck that happen'd just at those 
times to be. passing over their heads; and 
they have always, in the mean time, supplied 
you and your humble follower with money 
for our immediate wants. 

Plau. Well, hold your tongue, do ! {knocks 
at the door, which is opened by Robert.) Is 
your master at home ? 
Roh. Yes. 

Plau. Can he be spoken with .' 
Roh. No, Sir, he can't see you at present. 
Plau. At what hour can 1 see him .' 
Roh. I don't know. Sir. 
Plau. Is he so much engaged.' But you 
seem sad, my friend ; has any thing hap- 
pened .'* You had a funeral in the house some 
time ago 1 

Roh. Yes, Sir ; but it is a wedding we have 
got in it at this bout. 

P/aw. I had the honour of calling on Mr. 
Seabright yesterday morning, but he was not 
at home. 

Roh. Yes, Sir ; he has been at the borough 
of Crockdale to be chair'd, and the parish of 
Upperton to be married ; and he returned last 
night — 

Pro. Bridegroom and Member of Parlia- 
ment '. 

Roh. Keep your jokes till they are ask'd 
for. 

Pro. They would be stale jokes indeed, 
then. 

Plau. (to Pro.) Hold your tongue, pray. 
{to Rob.) He is engaged ? 



Roh. Yes, Sir ; he is with the bride and 
the company, in the garden, at breakfast. 

Plau. Well, I shan't disturb him at pres- 
ent. — Here is a crown for you : you will rec- 
ollect my face again when you see it ? I'll 
call again very soon. 

Pro. {aside.) Mercy upon us ! the last 
crown we have in the world given away on 
such a chance ! It shan't go tho'. 

Roh. O yes, Sir, I'll recollect you. [Exit 
Plausible. 

Pro. {lingering behind.) Don't shut the 
door yet. Hark you, my good Mr. John, for 
I know your name very well ! 

Rob. My name is Robert. 

Pro. Yes, Robert I said. 

Roh. Did you so, truly .•" have not 1 ears in 
my head ? 

Pro. Assuredly, Sir, and ears, let me tell 
you, that will hear good news soon, if you 
will be counsell'd by me. 

Rob . Anan ? 

Pro. Have you never a mind to put out a 
little money to advantage ? a guinea or so, 
now, in such a way as to return to you again 
with fifteen or twenty of his yellow-coated 
brethren at his back .'' 

Roh. Poo ! with your nonsense ! I have sent 
two or three guineas out upon such fool's er- 
rands already. 

Pro. And did they come back empty-hand- 
ed to you .•" 

Rob. No by my faith ; for they never came 
back at all. . 

Pro. O lud, lud ! thele be such cheats in 
this world, they frighten honest folks from 
trying their fortune. Ihavegota crown of 
my own, just now, and with another crown 
put to it by any good-hearted fellow that 
would go halves with me in the profit, I have 
an opportunity of making a good round sum, 
at present, in a veiy honest ;v,iy, that would 
almost make a man of me at once: but I'm 
sure I don't advise you to do it ; forpruden'^e 
is a great virtue ; prudence is a very great 
virtue. 

{Bell rings, and Robert stands hesitating.) 

Rob. Hang it ! a crown is no great matter 
after all. There it is {giving him the crown 
lokilst the hell rings again.) How that pla- 
guy bell rings I When you get the money 
for me, you'll know where to call .' 

Pro. Never fear ! when I get the money 
for you, I'll find my way back again, I war- 
rant you. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a garden, with a temple 

SEEN AT S03IE DISTANCE, IN WHICH 
ARE DISCOVERED LADY SARAH, SO- 
PHIA, ?4R. AND MRS. BEAUMONT, AND 
WILLIAM BEAUMONT, AS IF SEATED AF- 
TER BREAKFAST J WHILST QARDEN- 
ER AND ONE OR TWO OF THE SER- 
VANTS SKULK NEAR THE FRONT OF 
THE STAGE, BEHIND SOME BUSHES, 
LOOKING AT THEM. 



214 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



Gar. Bride indeed ! she's as unlovely a 
looking piece of goods as ever I look'd upon. 
See how she stares at every thing about her, 
and curls up her nose like a girkin ! I'll war- 
rant you she'll be all thro' my kitchen 
grounds by-and-by, to count over my cab- 



First Ser. Hold your tongue, man : we're 
too long here : see, they are all breaking up 
now, and some of them will be here m a 
trice. [Exeunt Servants. 

The company come out from the temple, and 

Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont advance to the front 

of the stage, talking together earnestly. 

Bea. (continuing to talk.) Nay, my dear, 
you are prejudiced and severe ; it did not 
strike me that she behaved to you with so 
much forbidding coldness. She has an un- 
gracious countenance to be sure, but now and 
then when it relaxes, she looks as if she had 
some good in her. 

Mrs. B. Yes, Charles, you find always 
some good in every one of God's creatures. 

Bea. And there is some good in every one 
of God's creatures, if you would but look 
for it. 

Mrs. B. I'm sure those who can find it out 
in her, have a quicker discernment than I can 
pretend to. How unlucky it was that we 
came to the house last night, without inquir- 
incT beforehand the state of the family ; I 
thought I should have fainted when they told 
me of the marriage ; and when I saw that 
creature in my sweet sister's place ! 

Bea. I pitied you, my dear Susan, very 
much, indeed I did ; but it would have look'd 
pettish and unforgiving in us to have gone 
away again at that late hour ; and I think 
we must stay with them till to-morrow. For 
the children's sake we must endeavour to be 
on good terms with them. But here come 
William and Sophia. 

Eater William Beaumont and Sophia, talk- 
ing as they enter. 

Wil. You like the yellow-streak'd carna- 
tions best.? 

So-ph. Yes, I think they are the prettiest, 
tho' we have but very few of them. 

Wil. O then I'll make our gardener sow a 
whole bushel of carnation-seed when I get 
home, that we may have a good chance, at 
least, of raising some of the kind you admire. 
And what else can I do for you Sophy.? Shall 
I copy some of my friend's verses for you .' 
or send you some landscapes for your draw- 
ing book .? or — did not you say you should 
like to have a rocking-horse for little Tony .' 

Soph. Indeed you are very good, cousin. 

Wil. No, no ! don't say that : there is no 
goodness at iill in doing any thing for you. 

Soph, {going up to Mr. B. who puts her 
arm affectionately round her.) My dear aunt ! 

Wil. Ah, mother ! see how tall she has 
grown since we saw her last, and how dark 
her hair is now. 



Mrs. B. (archly.) You like fair hair best, I 
believe, William. 

Wil. I like fair hair ! I can't endure it ! 

Mrs. B. (smiling.) Well, well, you need 
not be so vehement m expressing your dislike. 

Bea. Here comes Lady Sarak to join us : 
this at least is civil, you will confess. 

Lady S. (coming forioard to join them.) 
You are fond, Ma'am, I perceive, of the shade, 
from preferring this side of the garden, (for- 
mally to Mrs. B. who coldly hows assent.) It 
is a very pleasant morning for travelling, Mr. 
Beaumont. 

Bea. Yes, Madam, it is a very pleasant 
morning for travelling. 

Lady S. I'm sorry, however, that you will 
have so much dust on your road to town. 

Soph, (to Mrs. B.) Why you don't go to- 
day, aunt ? I thought you were to stay longer. 

Mrs. B. No, my dear, we go this morning. 
(looking significantly to Beaumont.) 

Lady S. Would not the cool of the evening 
be more agreeable .' 

Mrs. B. No, Ma'am, the coolness of this 
morning has been quite enough to induce us 
to set out immediately. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. (to Lady S.) Some poor people from 
the village are come to wish your Ladyship 
health and happiness. 

Lady S. (ungraciously.) I am obliged to 
them. — What do they mean ? Ay, ay ! tell 
them I am obliged to them. You need not 
wait ; that is all. 
[Exit Ser. whilst Mrs. B. smiles significantly 

to her husband. 

Soph. I wonder if my old friend, Huskins, 
be amongst them : I'll run and see. (going to 
run out.) 

Lady S. Perhaps, Miss Seabright will do 
me the honour to consult me upon what 
friendships are proper for her to cultivate. 

Mrs. B. (seeing Sophia distressed.) If your 
Ladyship will permit us, she shall retire with 
me for a little while. [Exeunt Mrs. B. and 
Sophia. 

Wil. (aside to his father, as they are about 
to follow them.) What an ugly witch it is ! 
must we leave Sophia with her .'' [Exeunt 
Beaumont and William B. Lady Sarah look- 
ing after them suspiciously. 

Enter Seabright. 

Lady S. (turning to him ivith affected spright- 
liness.) So you have been upon the watch, I 
suppose, and will not suffer me to stroll thro' 
these shady walks alone : I am positively to 
have no time to myself. 

Sea. You don't call me an intruder, I hope ? 

Lady S. Indeed if you become very trouble- 
some, I don't know what I may call you. 
He, he, he ! Imighing foolishly. Seabright 
putting his hand %ip to the side of her hat, she 
pushes it away with pretended coyness. How 
can you be so childish ? he, he, he ! 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



213 



Sea. (gravely.) Won't you let me pick a 
caterpillar from your ribband ? 

Lady S. (looking foolish and disappointed.) 

! is that it .-' I am much obliged to you : 
but you are always so good, so tenderly at- 
tentive to me ! Indeed this little hand was 
well bestow'd upon yoU, Seabright : I wish it 
had convey'd to you a better gift when it 
gave away myself, (thrusting out a great brovm 
hand to him. 

Sea. (raising it to his lips with affected ten- 
derness.) What could it possibly convey, my 
dear Lady Sarah, more — (stopping short as he 
is about to kiss it.) Is that a family ring upon 
your finger ? 

Lady S. Yes, it was my mother's : why so .'' 

•Sea. The arms of the Highcastles are upon 
it : Lord Highcastle then is your relation .'' 

Lady S. 1 am nearly related to him. 

Sea. (with his countenance brightening.) I 
did not know this : by my soul, I am glad of 
it 1 He is in ci-edil with the minister : you 
are on good terms with him, 1 hope. 

Lady S. Yes, I have always taken pains to 
be upon terms with him. 

Sea. I dare say you have ; I dare say you 
have : you have so much prudence, and so 
many good qualities, my dear love ! (kissing 
her hand with great alacrity.) 

Lady S. O it is all your olind partiality 1 
(putting her hand tenderly upon his shoulder.) 
Do you know, my dear Mr. Seabright, that 
coat becomes you very much : I wish you 
would always wear that color. 

Sea. I'll wear any thing you like, my dear. 
But, by-the-by, my constituents at Crockdale 
have a manufacture of woollen in the town : 

1 must buy two or three hundred yards of 
their stuff from them, I beiieve, lest I should 
have occasion to be 'elected again. 

Lady S. (taking her hand eagerly off his 
shoulder.) Two or three hundred yards of 
stuff from them ! Why, the cheapest kind 
they make is eighteenpence-halfpenny a yard : 
only consider what that will come to. 

Sea. No very great sum ! 

Lady S. 1 am surprised to hear you say so. 
Now I should think if you were to send the 
mayor and aldermen a haunch of venison 
now and then when it comes in your way, 
and the earliest information of any great pub- 
lic events that may occur, it would be a more 
delicate and pleasing attention. 

Sea. Well, well, my dear Lady Sarah, don't 
let us fall o,ut about it. 

Lady S. I am perfectly good humored, I 
assure you ; but you are so 

Sea. Yonder is your maid coming to speak 
to you : I'll leave you. 

Lady S. Indeed she has nothing to say : I 
won't suffer her to break in upon our tender 
conversation. 

Sea. But I must go to give directions about 
accommodating Lord Allcrest and his friend. 
They will be here soon. 

Lady S. Nay, there you have no occasion 
to give yourself any trouble : leave every 



thing of that kind to me : you are too pro- 
fuse, and too careless, in every thing. 

Sea. I may at least go to the stables and 
give my groom orders to provide oats for their 
horses. 

Lady S. 1 have a very good receipt in my 
receipt-book for feeding horses upon the re- 
fuse of a garden. 

Sea. (shaking his head and breaking away 
from her.) No, no ! that won't do. [Exit. 

Enter Pry with a busy face. 

Lady S. What brings you here, Pry .' Did 
not you see Mr. Seabright with me ? 

Pry. I protest, my Lady, I have been look- 
ing at so many things this morning, I can't 
tell what is before my eyes. 

Lady S. You have look'd over every thing 
then as I desired you : and I hope you hav« 
done it as if it were to satisfy your own curi- 
osity. 

Pry. To be sure, my Lady ; and I might 
say so with truth too, for nothing does my 
heart so much good as looking thro' all them 
there places. And, O dear, my Lady ! the 
chests, and the wardrobes, and the larders, 
and the store-rooms, that I have look'd into ! 
but that cunning fellow, Robert, would not 
let me into the wine-cellar tho'. 

Lady S. And you are sure you let them un- 
derstand it was all to please your own curios- 
ity .? 

Pr7j. to be sure ; and I was glad I could 
speak the truth too, for I never does tell a lie 
but when I cannot get a turn served without 
it. I remember, my Lady, you told me long 
ago that this was the best rule ; and I have 
always held you up, my Lady, for an ensam-- 
pie. Lord have mercy upon their souls, that 
will tell you over a pack of lies for no other 
purpose but to make people laugh ! And there 
is all your writers of books too, full of stories 
from one end to the other, what will become 
of them, poor sinners .'' 

Lady S. Never trouble your head about 
them : what have you seen ? 

Pry. O dear me ! the sheets and the table- 
linen, and the pickles, and the sweetmeats, 
and the hams, and the bacon, that I have seen ! 

Lady S. Indeed, Pry ! 

Pry. But do you know, my Lady, there is 
a curious place in the house. 

Lady S. What is it, pray ? 

Pry. A closet where they keep cordials for 
poor people. 

Lady S. (sourly.) Humph. 

Pry. It was kept for that purpose by the 
late Mrs. Seabright, and this young lady, 1 
am told, is as fond of it as her mother was. 

Lady S. Humph — every body has some 
maggot or other. 

Pry. Certainly, niy Lady, but this is a very 
strange one tho'. For you must know, my 
Lady, 1 thought no harm just to taste one of 
the bottles myself, thinking it might be some 
penny royal- water or blackberry- wine, or such 
things as charitable ladies give away ; but I 



216 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



protest it is as good liquor as any gentlewo- 
man would choose to keep for her own use. 

Lady S. I believe it has run in your head, 
Fry? 

Pry. No, no, my Lady ; whatever I may do 
by myself when I have a pain in my stomach, 
or such like, for nobody can help afflictions 
when it pleases Heaven to send them, I never 
lakes more than is creditable before people. 
And, O my Lady ! the pans of milk, and the 
butter, that I have seen in the dairy ! And 
I assure you, my Lady, the servants make 
good use of it : they make spare of nothing : 
the very kitchen-maids have cream to their 
tea. 

Lady S. Well, well ; we shall see how long 
this rioting will last. 

Pry. And I have been in the garden and 
in tlie orchard too — But stop ! I hear a noise 
in the bushes. 

Lady S. (looking around alarmed.) Why 
did you talk so loud, you gossipping fool .'' 
Come with me into the house. [Exeunt La- 
dy Sarah ««</ Pry, looking round alarmed. 
Enter Gardener, creepmg from amongst the 

bushes, and shaking his fist and making faces 

after them. 

Gar. I have been in the garden and the or- 
chard too ! hang'd jade ! we shall see who 
comes off winner at last. [Exit. 

Scene III. 
Enter Seabright followed by Robert. 

Sea. {speaking as he enters.) And he'll call 
again you say ? His name is Plausible ? 

Rob. Yes, Sir ; he is a very grave, sensible 
looking man. 

Sea. And has nobody else call'd .'' 

Roh. No, Sir. 

Sea. No letters for me ': 

Rob. No, Sir. 

Sea. Nobody applying for franks ? 

Rob. No, Sir. 

Sea. (aside.) Stupid dolts ! (aloud.) So much 
the better. Be in the way when I call for 
you. [Exit Robert.] Well, this is strange 
enouffh : nobody soliciting; nobody coming 
to pay their court to nie ; nobody asking me 
even for a frank : it is very strange ! (after 
musingysomc time.) Ha! but there is a bad 
spirit in men, which makes them always un- 
willing at firat to acknowledge the superiority 
of him who has been more nearly on a level 
with themselves. It is only when they see 
him lirmly established, and advancing in the 
patii r,f honours, that they are forced to res- 
pect hiu). (after xmdking across the stage 
proudly.) And they shall see me advance. 
I am not a man to stop .short at such begin- 
nings as these, after the high connexio'ns I 
have made : I feel that I am born for advanc- 
ing. The embarrassment of public affairs 
at present offers my activity a fair field for ex- 
ertion, (a great noise and clamour heard with 
out.) What is that .' Who waits there .•' 



Enter Robert. 

What a cursed clamour and noise is this I 
hear .' 

Rob. Only my Lady, Sir, who has been all 
over the house with Mrs. Pry, and layin* 
down some prudent regulations for the fam- 
ily- 

Sea. And what have the Servants to say 
to that ? 

Rob. A pretty deal, Sir : they are no wise 

mealy mouthed about the matter; and they're 

all coming to your honour with it in a body, 

( The noise without still coming nearer.) 

Sea. Don't let the angry fools come to me ; 
I'll have nothing to do with it. Go, tell them 
so. 

Rob. Very well, Sir; I'll be sure to tell them, 
he, he, he ! 

Sea. What, sirrah ! is it a joke for you? 

Rob. I did'nt laugh, Sir. 

Sea. (very angry.) But you did, you 
damn'd fool ! 

(Voices without.) I'll tell his honour of it, 
that I will. His honour is a good master, 
and has always kept his house like a gentle- 
man. 

Sea. Did not I tell you not to let those an- 
gry idiots come to me ? [Exit by the opposite 
side from the noise, in great haste whilst Rob- 
ert pushes back the crowd of servants, who are 
seen pressing in at the door. 

Rob. Get along all of you ! his honour 
won't be disturb'd. [Exeunt ; a great clam- 
our heard as they retire. 

Scene IV.— -lady sarah's dressing 

ROOM. 

Enter Lady Sarah, followed by Sophia, car- 
rying a work-basket in her hand, which she 
sets upon a work-table, and sits down to work. 

Lady S. (sitting down by her.) Now 1 hope, 
Miss Seabright, I may natter myself with 
having more of your company this morning 
than you generally favour me with. If Lord 
Allcrest does not come at an early hour, we 
shall have time for a good deal of work. 
When a young lady is industrious, and is not 
always reading nonsensical books, or running 
up and down after children, or watering two 
or three foolish flower-pots on her window, 
she can do a great many things for herself, 
that enable her to appear better dress'd than 
girls who are more expensive, (pausing) You 
don't answer me. 

Soph. Indeed, Ma'am, I had better not, for 
I don't know what to say. 

Lady S. You are a very prudent young la- 
dy, indeed, to make that a reason for holding 
your tongue. 

Soph, ft is a reason, indeed, which elder 
ladies do not always attend to. 

Lady S. What gown is that you have put 
on to-day ? It makes you look like a child 
from the nursery. — Mr. Supplecoat is to ac- 
company Lord AL'rest, who is a very prom- 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



217 



ising young man, of good expectations, and I 
could have wish'd you had dress'd to more 
advantage. There is a young friend of mine 
scarcely a year older than yourself, who is 
just going to be married to one of the best 
matches in the countrv ; and it is of great 
importance to have a daughter of a large fam- 
ily well and early settled m life. 

Soph, {looking very muck surprized.) O 
how different ! My poor mother used to say, 
that young women ought not to be married 
too early, but wait till they had sense to con- 
duct themselves at the head of a family. 

Lady S. Some of them would wait till they 
were pretty well wrinkled then. 

Soph. It must be confessed that some, who 
do wait till they are pretty well wrinkled, are 
fain at last to marry without it. {Voices 
heard zcithout.) 

Lady S. (rising quickly.) It is my broth- 
er's voice : he is come early. 

Enter Seabright, Lord Allcrest, and Sir 
Crafty Supplecoat. 

Lady S. My dear brother, I am rejoiced to 
see you. {holding out her hand to Lord All- 
crest, icho salutes her, and then curtesying 
very graciously to Sir Crafty.) 

Lord,'!. I am happy to see you look so well, 
sister. 

Sir C. Lady Sarah looks as a bride ought 
to look, fair and cheerful. 

Lady S. And Mr. Supplecoat talks as a 
courtier ought to talk, I need not say how. 

Lord .^. I beg pardon ; let me have the 
pleasure of introducing Sir Crafty Supplecoat 
to your Ladyship. 

Lady S. Every new honour that Sir Craf- 
ty acquires must give me pleasure. And 
permit me to introduce to your Lordship, 
Mr. Seabright's — I mean my daughter, who 
has many good qualities to make her worthy 
of your esteem, (presenting Sophia to Lord 
All. and then to Sir Crafty, who afterwards 
modestly shrinks back, behind Lady S.) 

Sea. {aside to Lady S. pulling her by the 
sleeve.) 
What, is he made a baronet .' 
Lady S. (aside.) Yes. 
Sea. (aside.) A baronet, not a knight .-' 
Lady S. (aside.) No, no ! a baronet, cer- 
tainly. 

Sea. (aloud.) Permit me again to say how 
happy I am to see your Lordship in this house: 
I hope you and Sir Crafty will not run away 
irom us so soon as your letter gave us reason 
to fear. 

Lord A. You are very obliging, my good 
Sir; but my time, as you may suppose, is of 
some little importance at present, and not al- 
together at my own command. 

Sir C. His Lordship's time has been so 
long devoted to the public, that he begins to 
believe it has a right to it. 

Lord A. (affecting humility.) Why, I have 
been placed, without any merit of my own, 

27 



in a situation which gives my country some 
claims upon me : ever since the time of Gil- 
bert, third Earl of Allcrest, the chiefs of my 
family have pursued one uniform line of 
public conduct 

Sir C. For which they have been reward- 
ed with one uniform stream of ministerial 
approbation. — Changes of men and of meas- 
ures have never been able to interrupt the 
happy and mutual uniformity. 

Lord ji. I believe, indeed, without the im- 
putation of vanity, I may boast of it. The 
imputation of pride I am not so anxious to a- 
void : it more naturally attaches itself to that 
dignified stability ; that high integri — I mean 

that public virt 1 should say — (mumbling 

indistinctly to himself) which my family has 
been conspicuous for. 

Sir C. Pride is a fault that great men blush 
not to own — it is the ennobled offspring of 
self-love; tho', it must be confess'd, grave 
and pompous vanity, like a fat plebeian in 
a robe of office, does very often assume its 
name. 

Lord A. Ha, ha. Sir Crafty ! you have a 
pleasant imagination : one can see that you 
sometimes read books. 

Sir C. I would rather follow your example, 
my Lord, in the more agreeable study of 
men. No ; I very seldom take a book in my 
hand, unless it be patronized by some great 
name, or have the honour, as has been the 
case with one of our best works lately, to be 
dedicated to your Lordship. 

Lord Jl. I am obliged to you, Supplecoat ; 
I am sure I am very happy if a name of so 
little importance as mine can be of any use 
to the learned world. We all owe learning a 
great deal. 

Sir C. I am sure the patronage of your 
Lordship's name is a full recompense to learn- 
ing for all the obligations you owe her. 

Lord .1. (bowing graciously, and then turn- 
ing to SeBihnght, as if /nodestly to interrupt the 
stream of his own praise.) Mr. Seabright, I 
must have a conversation with you in your 
library, when you can bestow as much lei- 
sure upon me. Most of our elections are al- 
ready decided, and the ensuing parliament 
bids fair to be as united and as meritorious as 
its predecessor. In those places where I have 
the honour to possess some little influence, 
the constitution, the government, or ministry 
— that is to say the same thing, you know, 
will find hearty and zealous supporters : I 
think I may depend at least on the member 
for Crockdale. (boicinir.) 

Sea. I hope I shall always be found to 
merit the friendship and alliance I have the 
honour of bearing to your Lordship. 

Lord Jl. (drawing back coldly.) Friend- 
ship is always the strongest tye, Mr Sea- 
bright : indeed the only one that is now held 
in any consideration, or indeed ever men- 
tioned. 

Sea. (mortified and draicing back also) I 
am ready to attend you, [my Lord, whenever 



218 



SECOND MARRIAGE: A COMEDY. 



you please ; I shall have the honour of shew- 
ing you the way to my library. 

LordJl. I am infinitely obliged to you. 
Will you go with us too, Sir Crafty .'' You 
have a list of the voters for Underwall in 
your pocket. The ladies will excuse us. 
[Exeunt Lord All. Sir Crafty, and Sea. who 
goes out with them and re-enters almost immedi- 
ately. 

Sea. (to Lady S.) His Lordship sent me 
back to borrow your spectacles. 

Lady S. Spectacles I I use no such thing. 

Sea. He says you do. 

Lady S. O yes, there is a particular kind 
which I sometimes look thro' to examine any 
thing very minutely. 
(After receiving the spectacles and going to the 

door, he suddenly stops and turns back.) 

Sea. But is it your brother's interest that 
has made Supplecoat a baronet .'' 

Lady S. I dare say it is. 

Sea. Yes, yes ! I make no doubt of it. [Ex- 
it, hurrying aioay. 

Lady S. {to Soph, angrily.) What made 
you, child, skulk behind backs so, like a sim- 
pleton .'' — You can be fluent enough when 
there is no occasion for it, and when you 
ought to speak you have not a word to say 
for yourself. This is true nursery breeding. 

Soph. Indeed, Madam, you may thank 
yourself for it ; for after what you said to me, 
before they arrived, about Sir Crafty Supple- 
coat and marrying, 1 could not bear to look 
at him ; and every time he looked at me, I 
felt strange and mortified, just as if I had been 
set there to be looked at. He is the most 
disagreeable man I ever saw in my life. 

Lady S. Don't be uneasy ; you have little 
chance, I'm afraid, of being molested by him 
But I forget : I must write to my friend, 
Mrs. Cudimore ; her husband is in credit 
now, and I have been too negligent a corres- 
pondent. [Exit. 
Soph, (sighing deeply.) O dear ! O dear ! 
O dear me ! she sleeps quietly under the 
green sod that I would right gladly lie down 
beside. [Exit sorrowfully. 

Scene V. — a small room with So- 
phia's BOOKS AND MUSIC, AND FLOW- 
ER-POTS, &C. SET IN ORDER. 

Enter Sophia very sorrowfully, leaning upon 
Nurse. 

Soph. O my dear nurse ! you are our best 
friend, and so she is going to send you away 
from us. — What will become of the poor chil- 
dren now .■' What will become ofusby-and- 
by .' And my father, too .'even my father. 
Oh how it wrieved me to see him courting 
th it proud Lord, who seems ashamed to con- 
sider him as a brother-in-law ! To see even 
my father looked down upon — it goes to my 
heart. 

Nurse. Let him take what he gets, an' a 
murrain to him ! he had no business to bring 
her here to torment us all, after the dear lady 



we have lost. — But dry up your tears : we'l 
be revenged upon her : there is not a crea- 
ture in the house that has not swore it : we'll 
be revenged upon her. 

Soph. What do you mean, nurse ? 

Nurse. I must not tell you, my dear young 
lady ; it is not proper that you should know 
any thing of it : but all the servants are join- 
ed in a plot, and they'll damp her courage, I 
warrant ye , they'll scare her finely. 

Soph, {skipping and clapping her hands.) 
O, 1 shall be so glad to have her well scared ! 
And I wish they would steal that nasty dog 
of her's, for she is kind to no living creature 
but it. 

Nurse. Nay, to give the devil his due, I be- 
lieve she is growing fond of little Tony. 

Soj)h. Little Tony .? 

Nurse. Yes, indeed. It is strange enough^ 
but the other day as she passed thro' the hall, 
we were all looking sourly enough upon her, 
no doubt, when, what possessed the child I 
don't know, but he held out his arms to her, 
and smiled. 

Soph. Nasty little toad ! to hold out his 
arms to her. 

Nurse. And, would you believe it, she took 
him in her arms, kissed him very kindly, and 
has taken to him wonderfully ever since. 

Soph. And do you think she really loves 
him .'' 

Nurse. Upon my honest word, I do. 

Soph. O then, don't let them do any harm 
to her : don't let them take any revenge up- 
on her; if she love Tony, I would not have 
her hurt 

Nhirse. O, but she loves none of the rest ; 
she is as hard as a millstone to the otiier two. 
O la ! here comes that fine Sir Crafty, as they 
call him : I wonder what can bring him here : 
can he be coming after you, Miss Sophy ? 
(icith a significant smile.) 

Soph. Now don't say so, nurse, for you 
know 1 can't bear it. 

Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat, advancing to 
Sophia with a very courteous smiling face, 
whilst she shrinks back and keeps close to 

Nurse. 

Soph, (aside.) O don't go, nurse. 

Sir C. Lady Sarah has had the goodness, 
Miss Seabright, to send to you a very will- 
ing messenger, who is happy to find any 
pretence in the world to present himself be- 
fore you. 

Nurse, (aside to Soph.) It is just as I said. 
(aloud to Sir C.) Meaning yourself. Sir .' 

Sir C. Yes; well guess'd, nurse I you are 
cunning enough, I see : you have the true 
sao-acity about you that becomes your occupa- 
tJo°n; and I doubt not that your young lady 
has profited by your very instructive society. 
Now that you have found out the messenger, 
perhaps Miss Seabright herself may guess 
what his errand is. 

(loith an affected smile. 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



219 



jYurse. {aside to Sophia, who shrinks back still 
more.) Ay, it is very like courting, I assure you. 

Sir C. {advancing as she recedes.) Will not 
Miss Seabright do me the honour to bestow 
one thought upon it ? I cannot doubt of her 
ability to guess my errand, if she will have 
the condescension. 

jXur.-e {aside to Soph.) Yes, yes ; it is the 
very thing : I have heard many a courtship 
begin after this fashion. 

Soph, {to Sir C, very much embarrassed and 
frifrhtened.) I — 1 — I'm sure I don't know. 

Sir C. {still advancing towards her as she 
recedes, with a more intolerable leer on his 
face.) Nay, do have the goodness to give me 
this proof of the skill you have acquired in 
this refined academy of improvement, and tell 
me on what errand I am come. 

Soph {becoming angry.) I'm sure I don't 
know, unless it be to make a fool of me, and 
I don't think I need to stay any longer for 
that purpose, {runs out.) 

JS'urse. {running after her.) Don't run 
away, Miss Sophy : he is a good looking gen- 
tleman, and very civil spoken, too. [Exit. 

Sir C. {looking after them.) Ha, ha, ha ! 

Enter Sharp at the side by which they have 
gone out. 

Sharp. You are merry, Sir : I believe lean 
guess what amuses you. 

Sir C. I dare say thou canst. Sharp ; it is 
easy enough to see what they have got into 
their foolish heads. Ha, ha, ha ! does the po- 
litical Lady Sarah think to put off her troub- 
lesome nursery girl upon Crafty Supplecoat .' 
But let me encourage the mistake for a little, 
it will strengthen my interest with Lord All- 
crest, which at present is necessary to me. — 
Thou understand'st me. Sharp. 

Sharp. Yes, yes, Sir ; and you'll have little 
trouble in keeping it up ; for the servants, 
thanks to Mrs. Pry's gossiping, who is in her 
lady's secrets, have got it so strongly into 
their heads, that if you but pick up the young 
lady's glove when she drops it, they think 
you are putting a ring on her finger. 

Sir C. I thank thee, Sharp ; and if thou 
can'st at any time pick up, in thine own way, 
any information that may be useful to me, 
thou shalt not go without thy reward. And 
how does the young lady like her step-motii- 
er's scheme .' hast thou heard them talk about 
that .? 

Sharp. Nay, they say she dislikes it very 
much, and is deucedly shy about it. 

Sir C. {smiling conceitedly.) Poo, poo, 
poo ! She must be allowed to have her little 
management as well as older people : deceit 
is inherent in the human mind. I came here 
at Lady Sarah's desire to request that she 
would bring her music book into the drawing- 
rooiTi, and play tons; and she took it into 

her head but what brought you here to 

seek me .'' Is the horse-dealer come to look 
at my ponies .' 

Sharp. Yes, Sir. 



Sir C. Then I must go to him. [Exit Sir 
Crafty, whilst Sharp remains behind, musing 
as if in serious thought about something. 

Enter Robert, in a great rage. 

Rob. Ay ! what damn'd tricks are you 
thinking of.'' I have overheard, at the door 
here, all that you and your vile master have 
been saying. My young lady to be made a 
fool of for his conveniency, indeed ! She's a 
match for a better man than him any day in 
the year ; there is not a lord of the land too 
good for her. But I'll be revenged upon him, 
vile serpent that he is ! I'll be revenged upon 
him ! 

Sharp. Well, don't be so loud, my good 
Robert, and you will perhaps be satisfied. — 
He has twice promised to get me a place or to 
raise my wages for me ; and if he break his 
word with me a third time, — I know what. — 
Come, man, let us go and have a glass togeth- 
er. [Exeunt. 



ACT in. 



Scene I. — a small country inn near 
seabright's house. 

Enter beaumont, morgan, and william 

BEAUMONT. 

Bea. {to Mor.) Well, my good Sir, how do 
you like travelling once more a little easy 
forenoon's journey in your native countr}' .'' 

Mor. Every thing in my native country is 
pleasant to me, or at least ought to be so; 
but I don't know ; I return to it again like a 
dog to a deserted house ; he begins to wag 
his tail at the threshold, but there is nobody 
to welcome him in : there is another genera- 
tion grown up that knows not me ; there is 
nothing but young people now in the world. 

Bca. But those young people will love and 
esteem you, and honour ycu. The caresses 
even of cheerful infancy go very kindly to 
an old man's heart. Come, come ! you shall 
see the promising family your niece has left 
behind her, and your heart will warm to 
them. Seabright has, I fear, set an ungra- 
cious step-mother over their head ; but she, 
perhaps, looks more so than she is. — Here 
comes our landlady. 

Enter Landlady. 
Good morning, Mrs. Thrifty. 

iMjid. (to Bea.) O Sir I I be glad to see 
you! 

Bca. I thank you, good landlady : take 
good care of my wife. 

Land. That I will. Sir ; she's in the green 
chamber, giving orders to her maid. And 
this young gentleman is your son, I suppose. 
(turning, and curtcsying to Wil.) 

Bea. Yes, my good ma'am. 

Land. Blessings on him ! Ay, if he be like 
his father, the blessings of the widow and the 



220 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMKD^ 



helpless will rest upon him. — You are going 
to the Squire's, 1 suppose? 

Bea. Yes, landl.ady ; how does the family 
do'' 

Land. O lud. Sir ! what an alter'd family 
it be ! the servants a-grumbling ; the lady 
a-scolding; the Squire himself going up and 
down like a man possess'd, as they tell me, 
and can't sleep in his bed o' nights for writ- 
ing to dukes and lords and such like, and tor- 
menting himself, poor man, just to be made a 
Sir or a Knight, or some nonsense or other 
of that kind ; — and then all the poor children ; 
it grieves me to see them like so many chick- 
ens that have got no dam to gather them to- 
gether, tho' I'm sure that dear good young 
lady does all that she can for them. 1 sees 
her every morning from the room overhead, 
which overlooks their garden, walking with 
them as if she were the mother of them all, 
tho' 1 warrant you she's soon snubb'd into 
the house again : O it grieves me to see them I 

Will, [eagerly.) In the room overhead, did 
you say .' and in the morning ? about this 
time .' 

Land. I don't know if just at this very 
time. 

Will. I dare say she is. {going out eagerly.) 

Bea. But you wanted to read that para- 
graph about your friend, William, and here is 
the newspaper just come. 

Will, (impatiently.) O hang it ! not nov\; : 
I don't care if I never read it. 

[Exit quickly. 

Bea. (to Land.) And he can't sleep in his 
bed, they say, for writing letters to great 
people ? 

Land. Yes, Sir, so they say; but there 
may be other reasons for a man not resting in 
his bed. 

Bea, And what other reasons may there 
he? 

Land. Sir, my grandfather was sexton of 
the parish, and would have thought nothing 
of digging you a grave in a dark winter 
evening, or ringing the church bell in the 
middle of the night, with never a living crea- 
ture near him but his dog and his lantern ; 
and I have myself sat up with dead corpses 
ere now, and I can't but say they always lay 
very quietly when I was v/ith them ; there- 
fore I'm not a very likely person, you know, 
to give heed to foolish stories about ghosts 
and such like. Howsomever, the servants 
say that they hear strange noises since their 
new lady came home ; and some of them 
swears that they have heard their late lady's 
footsteps walking along the hall in the mid- 
dle of the night, as plainly as when she was 
alive. 

Bea. That is strange enough, landlady. 

Land. To be sure it is. Sir ; but what shall 
we say against it.'' for if misers come back to 
the world again to look after tlieir gold, why 
may not a mother come back to it again to 
look after her children, oppress'd by a hard- 
hearted step-mother ? 



Bea. Indeed, it would be difficult in this 
case to gainsay it. But let us have coffee in 
the next room, 1 pray you, as soon a^ you 
can. 

Land. Immediately, Sir. [Exit Landlady. 

Bea. This is a strange untoward account 
that our good landlady gives us of the family. 
One can find out, however, that domestic 
comfort is no more the lot of poor Seabright 
— but we shall see when we go to him what 
state he is in. 

Mor. You will see yourself then, for I 
shan't go to him at all. 

Bea. No ! don't say so, my good friend : he 
was an affectionate husband to your niece, and 
an indulgent father to her children. (Mor. 
shakes his head.) When his wife died, his old 
habits were broken up ; he is of an aspiring 
disposition ; a high alliance and a borough 
presented themselves to him, and he fell into 
the snare. (Mot. still shakes his head.) He ha» 
married a woman who is narrow-minded nat- 
urally ; but that disposition has been strength- 
ened by circumstances : she has long been 
lefl, as a single woman, to support high rank 
upon a very small income, and has lived 
much with those to whom begging and so- 
licitations are no disgrace : differently circum- 
stanced she might have been more respecta- 
ble, and when differently circumstanced she 
may become so. 

Mor Go to him thyself, Beaumont: I am an 
old man; my life's bark has been long buffeted 
about on a stormy sea, and I have seen cruel 
sights. I do not look upon my fellow-men 
with the same gentle eye as thou dost : I can- 
not love them myself, but I love thee because 
thou dost it : so e'en take nie home to thine 
own house ! no other house will I enter ; and 
let me have an arm-chair by thy fire-side to 
end my days in, where I may sit at my ease, 
and grumble at the whole human race. 

Bea. No, no ! you shall see all your rela- 
tions ; and love them too, and do what is right 
by every one of them. 

Mor. Do it for me then : I can't be troubled 
with it. Take my fortune into your own 
hands, and dispose of it as you please. 

Bea. No ; you shall do it yourself; and the 
blessings of those you bestow it upon shall 
fall on your own head undivided and uninter- 
cepted. 

Mor. I will take the simplest and shortest 
way of settling my fortune ; I'll give it all to 
your son. 

Bea. (Stretching himself vp loith a proud 
smile.) Yes, if he will have it. 

Enter William B. with great animation. 

IVill. I've seen her, father ! I've seen her ! 

Bea. Who have you seen.' 

Will. My cousin Sophy : she is in the gar- 
den just now with all the children about her; 
and they have pulled off her hat in their play, 
and she looks so pretty — I — I mean good-hu- 
mour'd, and — 

Bea. (smiling.) There is no harm in calling 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



22} 



Jier pretty, William.— But Mr. Morgan has 
got something very serious to say to you : he 
wishes to settle his fortune upon you. 

Mor. Yes, my brave William, every shil- 
ling of it. 

Will. What ! and Sophia and all the little 
Seabrights, who are as nearly related to you, 
to have nothing ! 

Mor. It shall be all your own. 

IVUl. (xoith great vehemence.) Hang me, 
tlien, if I take one sixpence more than my 
own share ! 

Mor. Ah ! I see how it is : I am a blasted 
tree from which no sapling shoots : my grey 
hsdrs are despised. 

Will. O say not so, my good Sir ! {Bending 
one knee to the ground, and kissing the old 
Irian's hand.) I will bow my head as affec- 
tionately beneath your blessing as the most 
dutiful child. But you shall have many chil- 
dren to respect and love you ! and one of them 
— O you shall see one of them that will make 
your heart leap with pleasure. 

{Hurrying aicay.) 

Bea. Where are you going in such haste.-' 

Will. Nevermind; I'll soon return. [Exit. 

Mor. (<oBea. loho looks signijicantly to him.) 
Yes, my friend, he was sent to you from Him 
who has given you many blessings. 

Bea. But none like this. {Fervently.) He 
is a brave and upright spirit, passing with me 
thro' this world to a better. When he was 
but so high, yea, but so high, how his little 
heart would spurn at all injustice ! 

Enter Mrs. Beaumont. 

Mrs. B. Where is William .' 

Bea. He is gone over the way, I believe, to 
fetch Sophia here. 

Mrs. B. I'm glad of that : I came here on- 
ly to see her, and I will never enter Seabright's 
door again as long as I live. 

Bea. " As long as I live," my dear, is a 
phrase of very varied significations : it means 
the term of an angry woman's passion, or a 
fond woman's fancy, or a 

Mrs. B. Or a good man's simplicity, Mr. 
Beaumont. Do you think I will ever enter 
the house where that woman is the mistress; 
unfeeling, indelicate, uncivil .' 

Bea. But she won't squander his fortune, 
however; and that is a good thing for the 
children. 

Mrs. B. Poo, Mr. Beaumont I the wicked- 
est creature on earth has always your good 
word for some precious quality or other. 

Bea. Well, my dear, and the wickedest 
creature in the world always has something 
about it that shews whose creature it is — that 
shews we were all meant for a good end ; and 
that there is a seed — a springing place — a be- 
ginning for it, in every body. 

Mrs. B. It is a very small speck with her, 
then. I'm sure, and would elude any body's 
search but jout own. 

Bea. Now, Mr. Morgan, don't think hard- 
ly of my wife's disposition, because she is an- 



gry at present : I assure you she is a very 
good woman, and has an excellent heart . 
She is in all things better than myself, tho' 
I'm of a more composed disposition. 

Mrs. B. {sojtened.) My dear Beaumont ! I 
chide yo'i ^^ '^ child, and 1 honour yon as a 
man ! But no more of this. — Does William 
tell Sophia that she is to meet her great-uncle 
here .' 

Mor. I hope he will not : I should wish to 
be unknown for some time, that I may observe 
and determine for myself, since you will make 
me act for myself. 

Bea. Go, then, into the next room with Mrs. 
Beaumont: I'll wait for them here, and if he 
has not told her already, I'll desire him to 
conceal it. I hear them coming. [Exeunt 
Mrs. B. and Morgan. 

(Enter William B. leading in Sophia.) 

Soph. But who are you taking me to see .' 

Will. You shall know by-and-by — But do 
stop a moment, Sophy, and pull back the hat 
a little from your face : you look best with it 
so. {stopping and putting her hat to rights.) 
That will do.— And throw away that foolish 
basket out of your hands {taking a fioioer-hask- 
et from her, in which she seems to have leen 
gathering rose-leaves, and throwing it atcay) ; 
and pray now hold up your head a little bet- 
ter. 

Soph. What is all this preparation for .' 
(Bea. Wlio Itad retired to the bottom of the stage, 

unobserved by them, noio advances softly be- 
hind Soph, and makes a sig7i to William to 

be silent.) 

V/ill. You are to see somebody that loves 
you very much, and likes to see you look 
well, you know : you are to see your aunt. 

Soph. But there is somebody else you told 
me of. 

Will. Yes, there is an old connection of 
ours with her; and pray now, Sophy, look 
pleasantly upon him ; for he is an old man, 
and has met with misfortunes ; he has be^n 
in foreign countries ; he has been in prsions, 
and has had chains on his legs. 

Soph. O then, i am sure I shall look upon 
him kindly ! 

[Exeunt Soph, and Will, folloiced at a dis- 
tance by Beaumont. 

Scene II. — a large koom in se.\- 

BRIGHT's house. XiAD¥ SARAH IS DIS- 
COVERED SITTING BY A TABLE WRIT 
ING, NEAR THE BOTTOM OF THE STAGE' 

Lady S. There is so much light tlirown a- 
cross my paper here, it makes me almost 
blind. 'VVho's there .' is it you, Pry ? 

Enter Pry from the adjoining room. 

Pry. Yes, my Lady ; I sits in this room 
here pretty often, for the servants are vulgar 
and rude to me, and my own room is so lone- 
some I can't bear to be in it. Not that I hear 
any of them noises, excepting in the night 
time ; yet I can't help thinking of it all day 
long when I am alone. — First it comes to my 



22" 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



door, '• lowe, lowe, lowe I" just like a great 
bull : then it comes presenty after, " scrie, 
scrie, scrie !" just like a raven, or a cock, or 
a cat, or any of those wild animals ; and then 
for the groans that it gives — O! an old jack 
that lias not been oil'd for a twelve month is 
a joke to it. 

Lady S. {gravely.) Remove this table for 
me to the other end of the room : it is too 
much in the sun here. (Pry removes the ta- 
ble near the front of the stage, and Lady S. sits 
down to write again, loithout speaking ; then 
looking up and seeing Pry still by her.) Leave 
rae. 

Pry. I'm just going, my Lady. I believe 
I told you, my Lady, that Robert tells me, 
the vicar always expects the present of a new 
gown and cassock when he is sent for to lay 
a ghost in any genteel house. 

Lady S. Leave me, I say ; I'll hear no 
more of that nonsense at present. [Exit Pry, 
and enter Seabright. 

Sea. What has that absurd creature been 
chatting about .'' 

Lady S. Still about those strange noises. 

Sea. I thought so ; every noise is a thief or 
a ghost with her. Who are you writing to ? 

Lady S I am writing to I^ady Puler, to beg 
she will have the goodness to send nie a few 
lines by return of post, to let me know how 
her rheumatism does- her husband, you know, 
may have it in his power to serve you. 

Sea. {nodding.) That is very right, my 
dear. 

Lady S. And here is a letter I have just 
written to Lady Mar}' Markly : she is a spite- 
ful toad, and I never could endure her ;, but 
she is going to be married for the third time 
to a near I'elation of the minister's, and it will 
be proper in me, you know, to be very much 
interested in her approaching happiness. 

Sea. Yes, perfectly right, my dear Lady 
Sarah ; I won't interrupt, you. {sils down.) 

Liidy S, Indeed, my dear Seabright, 1 have 
been in the habit of studying these things , and 
1 know I'/^w to make my account in it. If 
people v.'oul.l but attend to it, every acquaint- 
ance that tliey make, every letter that they 
■\vrite, every dinner that they give, might be 
made to turn to some advantage. 

Sea. (hasLily, with marks of disgust.) No, 
no ! that is carr^ving it too far ! 

Lady S. Not at all, Mr. Seabright! 1 sent 
a basket of the best fruit in your garden this 
morning even to old Mrs. Pewtcrer, the 
Mayor of Crockdale's motlier-in-law, and I 
dare say it won't be thrown away. 

Sea. (smiling.) Well, that, however, was 
very well thought of. But I interrupt you. 
{she continues to write, and he sits musing for 
some time, then speaking to himself .) A baron- 
et of Great Britain and seven thousand a 
year! {smiling I o himself.) Ay, that would he 
a resting-place at which I could put up my 
horses, and say, 1 have travell'd far enough. 
A baronet of Great Britain, and seven thou- 
sand a year 



Lady S. {looking uj) from her paper.) A 
baronet of Great Britain you will soon be ; 
this day's post, I trust, will inform you of that 
honour being conferred upon you ; but the 
seven thousand a year, I wish we were as 
sure of having that added to it. 

S«a. 1 wish we were ; but Mr. Plausible 
has been with me last night, and has pointed 
out a way to ine, in which, by venturing a 
considerable capital on very small risk, a most 
prodigious gain might be made ; and in which, 
money laid out 

Lady S. {interrupting him eagerly.) Will 
never return any more ! {getting up alarmed.) 
Pray, pray, my dear Seabright, don't frighten 
me ! The very idea of such a scheme will 
throw me into a fit. — Don't let that man en- 
ter the house any more — he is a dark-eyed, 
needy-looking man — don't let him come here 
any more. 

Sea. Why, what alarms you so much.' he 
is a very uncommon man, and a man of ge- 
nius. 

Lady S. Keep him out of the house, then, 
for Heaven's sake ! there is never any good 
got by admitting men of genius; and you 
may keep them all out of your house, I 'm sure, 
without being very inhospitable 

Sea. Your over-caution will be a clog upon 
my fortune. 

Lady S. A clog upon your fortune, Mr. 
Seabright ! Am not I doing every thing that 
a woman can do to advance it '' am not I 
writing letters for you ? making intimacies 
for you ? paying visits for you .■' teazing ev- 
ery body that is related to me within the fifti- 
eth degree of consanguinity for you ? — and is 
this being a clog upon your fortune .'' 

Sea. Well, well ! we shall see what it all 
comes to. 

Lady S. Yes, we shall see ; this very post 
will inform you of our success ; I'm sure of 
it; and see, here are the. letters. 

Enter Pry with letters, which she gives to Sea.; 
and then puts one down on the table for La- 
dy Sarah, who is so busy looking at Sea- 
bright's that she does not perceive It. 

Lady S. {to Vry , who seems inclined to stay.) 
Don't wait : I shall call when I want you. 

[Exit Pry. 

Sea. {opening a letter and running his eye 
over it eagerly.) Hang it ! it is about the al- 
tering of a turnpike road, {throuis it away im- 
patiently, and opens another letter icliich he 
reads in like manner.) Stuff" and nonsense a- 
bout friendship, and old acquaintance, and so 
on ! What a parcel of fools there are in the 
world ! Ha ! what seal is this ? {opening 
another letter eagerly.) Holland the devil ! i 
is a letter from your brother, and only a ccni- 
mon-place letter of compliment, witii never a 
word on the subject ! (Tearing the letters in a 
rage, and strewing them upon the floor.) Curs- 
cd^be pen, ink, and paper, and every one that 
put« his trust in them 1 

/ ady S. Don't destroy tlie blank sides of 



SECOND MARRIAGE . A COMEDY. 



225 



your letters, Mr. Seabright, they will do to 
■write notes upon. 

Sea. O confound your little minute econo- 
my, Lady Sarah ! it comes across me every 
now and then like the creeping of a spider : 
it makes me mad. 

Lady S. {jmtt'mg aside her papers, ranch of- 
fended.) I think 1 need scarcely give myself 
tlie trouble of writing any more to-day. (see- 
ing the letter on her table.) Ha ! a letter from 
ray brother to me ! (opening it.) and a later 
xiate I fancy than that which you have re- 
ceived, {reads it tcith her countenance bright- 
ening up.) 

Sea. {looking eagerly at her.) What's in it ? 
{she is silent.) What's in it.' for God's sake 
tell me ! 

Lady S. {going up to him tcith a smiling 
face, and an affected formal curtesy.) 1 have 
the honour to congratulate Sir Anthony Sea- 
bright. 

Sea. Is it really so .' Is it really so ? Let me 
see, let me see. {snatches the Letter from her, 
and reads it.) O it is so in very truth I — Give 
me your hand, my dear Lady Sarah ! and 
give me a kiss too. {kisses her on one cheek, 
and she graciously txirns to him the other.) O 
one will do very well. — Where are all the 
children .-' let every soul in the house come 
about me ! — No, no, no ! let me be decent; 
let me be moderate. 

Enter Plausible. 

Sea. {going joyfully to him.) How do you 
do .'' how do you do, my very good friend .'' 

Lady. S. {pulling Sea. by the sleeve.) You 
know you are engaged ; you can't speak with 
any body at present. 

Sea. I can do all I have to do very well, 
and give a quarter of an hour to Mr. Plausi- 
ble, notwithstanding. 

Lady S. {stillpulling him.) You have many 
letters to write, and many other things. — 
You understand me ? 

Plau. I shall have the pleasure of calling 
then to-morrow morning. 

Lady S. He is engaged to-morrow morn- 
ing. 

Plau. And in the evening also ? 

Lady S. Yes, Sir, and every hour in the 
day. — He has not yet laid out his fortune to 
such advantage as will enable him to bestow 
quite so much leisure time upon his friends 
as Mr. Plausible. 

Plau. I can never regret the leisure time I 
have upon my hands, since it has given me 
an opportunity of obliging your Ladyship : I 
have procured the inestimable receipt for 
whitening linen without soap that I men- 
tioned to you, and I shall bring it to you to- 
morrow. 

Lady S. Pray don't take the trouble .' I am 
much obliged to you : but we are all so much 
occupied ! {to Sea.) Are not you going to 
write by return of post ? 

Sea. {to Plau.) I am really much engaged 
at present: the King has been graciously 



pleased, tho' most unworthy of it, and i most 
unlook'd-for on my part, to honour me with 
the dignity of a baronet of Great Britain. 

Plau. 1 rejoice, my dear Sir, I congratulate 
you with all my heart ; and I have tlie hon- 
our to congratulate your Ladyship also. 

Lady S. I thank you, Sir — good morning — 
good morning. 

Sea. {to Plau.) Trifling as these things may 
be, yet as a mark of royal favour — -^ 

Lady S. {impatiently.) Yes, yes ; he knows 
all that well enough. — Good morning, {to 
Plau.) You will positively have no time to 
write your letters by the return of post, {to 
Sea. pulling him awaij, icho bores to Plau. and 
goes 2vith hrr unwiilingly. Turning round, 
.•suddenly to Plau. as they are just going out.) 
Whitening linen without soap .' 

Plau. Yes, Madam; and no e.xpense of any 
kind in the business. 

Lady S. When you are passing this way, 
at any rate, I should be glad to look at it. 

Plmi. I shall have the honour very soon of 
calling upon your Ladyship. 

Lady S. You are very obliging. You will 
excuse us ; you will excuse us, Mr. Plausible ; 
we are really obliged to be extremely rude to 
you. [Exeunt Lady S. and Sea. 

Plan, {alone.) Ha, ha, ha ! I shall keep my 
hold still I find. 

Enter Prowler, looking cautiously about as 
he enters. 

What do you want ? 

Pro. Unless you want to be laid up by the 
heels, don't go out of this house bj' the same 
door that you enter'd it. I have waited in 
the passage here to tell you. 

Plau. Ha ! have they found me out ? 

Pro. Yes, by my faith, there are two as ug- 
ly looking fellows waiting for you at the front 
entry as ev«r made a poor debtor's heart 
quake. There is surely some back door in 
this house. 

Enter Robert. 

{to Rob.) My good friend, I want to know 
where we can find a back way out of this 
house. 

Rob. And I want to know when I am to 
have the crown I intrusted to you. 

Pro. Tome, Sir.? 

Rob. Yes, to you, Sir; and you know it 
very well, you do. 

Pro. O ! you are my friend Robert, that I 
was inquiring after. 

Rob. Yes, Sir ; and I will have my money 
directly ; for I know you are a cheat ; I know 
it by your very face. 

Pro. Ha, ha, ha ! So you prefer having a 
crown to-day to receiving ten guineas to- 
morrow .'' 

Rob. Receiving ten fiddle-strings to-mor- 
row ! pay me my crown directly. 

Pro. Very well, with all m)' heart; but 
you must sign me a paper, in the first place, 
giving up all right to the ten guineas you are 



224 



SECXJND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY, 



entitled to. (Robert hesitat-'s.) Nay ,nay, I'm 
not such an ass as you take me lor : tlierc is 
pen, ink, and paper, {pointing to the. table.) 
Sign me a right to the ten guineas directly. 

Rob. {scratclunjf liis head.) Well, we'll let 
it stand, if you please, till another time. 

Pro. I thought SO: faith you're too cunnmg 
for nif! ! But shew us tlie way to the back 
door, quickly. 

Rob. And should you like to come that 
way to-morrow, when you bring- me the mon- 
ey.' I shall be sure to be in the way to let 
you in. 

Pro. Let us out by the back door to-day, 
and let me in to-morrow by any door you 
please. [Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — seabright's library. — 

Enter Seabright, as if from a short journey, 
and the Eldest Boy running after him. 

Boy. O papa, papa ! I'm glad you're come 
back again ! And have you said over your 
speech to tlie parliament .-' and did they say 
any fine speeches back again to you ? 

Sea. Go away, George: I'm fatigu'd ; I 
can't speak to you now. 

Enter Robert, 

Rob. Won'tyour honour have some refresh- 
ment after your journey ? My Lady is gone 
out ,an airing ; you had better have some- 
thing. 

Sea. No, nothing, Robert. — A glass of wa- 
ter, if you please, (sits down grave and dis- 
pirited, ickiist Robert fetches the water, and 
the Boy plays about the room.) 

Rob. (presenting the toater.) I'll warrant 
now that you have had a power of fine talk- 
ing in this Parliament house ; and I warrant 
your honour's speecli was as well regarded as 
any of it. 

Sea. I thank you, Robert: I am fatigued, 
and would be alone for a little : take that 
boy."away in your hand. (Exeunt Rob. and 
the Boy, and Sea. remains some time musing 
icith a dissatisfied face ; then speaking to him- 
self.) " The conciseness with which the 
Honourable Baronet who spoke last has treat- 
ed this question." Ah ! but I was, — I was 
too concise ! The whole train of connecting 
and illustrative thoughts, which 1 had been 
at so much pains, beforehand, to fix and ar- 
range in my head, vanish'd from me as [ rose 
to speak ; and nothing of all that 1 had pre- 
pared presented itself before me, but the 
mere heads of the subject standing up bar- 
ren and bare, like so many detach'd rocks in 
a desert land, (starting up.) This will never 
do ! I'nr sure 1 have not spared myself: I 
have labour'd niglit and day at this speech : 
I have woi-k'd at it like a slave in a mine ; 
and yet, when I came to the push, it deceiv- 



ed me. (shaking his head.) This will never 
do ! let me rest satisfied with what I have 
got, and think of being a speaker no more. — 
(stands despondingly for a little tchilc, loith his 
arms across, then suddenly becoming animat- 
ed) No ! I will not give it up! I saw an old 
school-fellow of mine in the lobby, as I went 
out, who whisperd to tlie person standing 
next him as I pasa'd, that I was his towns- 
man. Does not this look as if my speech, 
even such as I was enabled to give it, had 
been approved of.' O, I will not give it up I 
This is the only way to high distinctions : 1 
must drudge and labour still. Heigh ho! 
(yaioning grievously. A gentle tap is heard 
at the door.) Who's there ? (angrily.) 

Soph, (without.) May I come in, papa? 

Sea. Yes, yes ; but what do you want -' 

Enter Sofhia, timidly. 

Soph. I only come, my dear Sir, to see 
how you do after your journey. But you 
don't look well, papa ; j'ou don't look happy : 
has any thing displeas'd you ? 

Sea. No, my good girl. 

Soph, (kissing his hand.) I thank you, pa- 
pa, for calling me your good girl : I was your 
good girl. 

Sea. And are so still, my dear Sophia ; but 
you must sometimes excuse me ; 1 am not 
verj' happy. 

Soph. Ah papa ! I know what makes you 
unhappy. 

Sea. (shaking his head.) Thou dost not ! 
thou dost not ! 

Soph. Ah, but I do ! and nobody told it me 
neithej — I can just see it my ovi^n self. You 
are giving yourself a great deal of trouble, 
and courting very proud and very disagreeable 
people, for what you very probably won't 
get ; and you are grieved to think that Lady 
Sarah does not treat us so kindly as she 
mio-ht do. But don't be unhappy; don't 
court those proud people any more : you 
have enough to live upon as you used to do ; 
and Lady Sarah will be kinder to us by-an- 
bye. I know she will ; for she loves little 
Tony alread}' ; and if she should not, we will 
never complain. 

Sea. (kissing her.) My sweet child ! thoa 
deservest — O thou deservest more than I can 
ever do for thee ! 

Soph, (gladly.) Do you say so, indeed ? O 
then do this for me ! 

Sea. What is it, Sophia.' 

Soph. Trouble yourself no more with great 
people, and studying of speeches for that odi- 
ous Parliament; and when Lady Sarah is out 
of the way, let tlie children come and play 
about you again, as they used to do. 

Sea. (tenderly.) I thank you, my good 
child, but you don't understand these things. 
^ IValks Ihoughtfally across the room, and then 
returns to her again.) There is an office which 
Lord Allcrest has promised to procure for me, 
that would bring me a considerable and per- 
manent addition to my income ; if I once 



SECOND MARRIAGE . A COMEDY. 



225 



had that secured, I believe, in truth, it would 
be no unwise thing in me to follow your ad- 
vice. 

Soph. O, my dear Sir, I hope you will 
have it, then 1 {skipping joyfully.) I hope you 
will have it. 

Enter a Skrvant, and announces Sir Crafty 

SUPPLECOAT. 

Sea. Sir Crafty here ! can any thing have 
happen'd for me .■' 

Soph. O if it should be the place ! — But 
shall I go away .'. for I don't like to see that 
man. 

Sea. No, my dear, stay with me ; 1 like to 
have you beside me. 

Soph. Then I will stay ; for I am happy 
now, and can look upon him boldly. 

Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat. 

Sea. Sir Crafty, your servant; I'm very 
happy to see you. 

Sir C. Your servant. Sir Anthony ; I'm 
happy in being able to pay you my respects. 
— Aliss Seabright I hope is well, (hawing la 
Soph, icho returns his civility with cheerful- 
ness.) Indeed, Sir Anthony, I have long'd 
ever since I heard your speech in the House, 
which, for a maiden speech — Well, I will not 
say what it was. — I have long'd to declare to 
lyou the extreme pleasure I take in the fair 
career that is now open'd before you, and in 
being permitted to consider myself as one of 
your friends. 

Sea. You do me great honour ; 1 am infi- 
nitely obliged to you. My speech indeed 
ought — it ought to have (hesitating.) 

Sir C. To have been just what it was, my 
dear Baronet. Your friends enjoy 'd it : and, 
let me say it freely, without envy. 

Sea. I am much flatter'd : tlieir praises are 
— are (hesitating.) 

Sir C. Are proportion'd to their admira- 
tion. Sir Anthon}' : and they have great plea- 
sure in talking of it. 

Sea. (eagerly.) Ha ! do they talk much of 
It .= 

Sir C. Yes; more than 1 would ventuie to 
repeat to you. 

Sea. Friends, indeed, say many things that 
ought not to be believed. 

Sir C. I assure you, your's say many things 
which one of the qualities you so eminently 

f>ossess would not, perliaps, suffer you to be- 
ieve. Eloquence — eloquence, my dear Sir — 
great things are to be attain 'd in this country 
by eloquence. Eloquence and high connex- 
ions give a man such velocity in movincr, 
that nothing can stop his career. — But I ought 
to tell you, by-the-bye, that old Saunter is 
dead, unexpectedly; and that office, if indeed 
it can be consider'd as any object to you now, 
is ready for your acceptance. 

Soph, (aside to Sea.) Is that the office, papa.' 
Sea. Yes, child : hold your tono-ue. (aloud.) 
I am obliged to you for this intelligence, Sir 
28 



Crafty : an office for life, tho' not very con- 
siderable, is of some consequence to a man 
who has a family of children. . (Soph, takes 
her father^ s liand and presses it gratefully.) 

Sir C. Ha, ha, ha I Sir Anthony Seabright, 
with all his abilities and connexions, is, like 
a very good father, anxious to provide for his 
family ! I thought, my dear Sir, such talents 
as your's had generally been accompanied 
with an aspirmg temper ; but Lady Sarah's 
prudent character, I perceive, has had its 
effect upon you. 

Sea. No, no ; you are wrong. 

Sir C. Nay, pardon me if 1 say that you 
also are wrong, in fixing yourself down, in 
the very beginning of your career, as a quiet 
unaspiring man, who is glad to be early pro- 
vided for in a quiet, humble permanency ; 
for this office, you know, is regarded as 

Sea. (interrupting him eagerly,) What, is 
it regarded in that light .' 

Sir C. It really is. Mr. Trotman, now pro- 
moted to a peerage, and whose first speech, 
by-the-bye very much resembled your own, 
refused it on that very account ; and Mr. 
Brown, and Mr. Wilson, and Sir Samuel 
Soppet, and many other Misters and Sirs, 
promoted to the same dignity, would never 
have got on, be assured, if they had thus fixed 
themselves down at the very threshold of ad- 
vancement. 

Sea. But I see no reason why accepting 
such an office as this should hinder one from 
advancing. 

Sir C. I can give you no good reason for it, 
I confess ; but there have been certain places, 
time out of mind, which have, somehow or 
other, been consider'd as indicative or other- 
wise of promotion, and which stand up in the 
great field of honours like finger-posts in a 
wide-track'd common, saying " this is the 
way to such a place :" they who are once 
posscss'd of those places, move on to the 
others, for no eartlilj' reason, that we can 
perceive, but because they have been placed 
in the first ; and this you will readily allow 
is no time for innovation. 

Sea. I believe there is something in what 
you say. 

Sir C. There is so much in it, that if you 
can find some less aspiring friend, to whom 
you can with confidence give up this office, 
relying on his honour to assist you with the 
full weight of his interest on all future occa- 
sions, I am sure you will never think of ac- 
cepting it. 

Soph, (laying hold of her father's arm, and 
speaking eagerly to Sir Crafty.) Ah, but he 
will, tho' ! 

Sea. Sophia, you forget yourself, (she 
shrinks back abashed.) 

Sir C. (smiling.) It is an amiable weakness 
in this interested age to forget yourself, and 
confined, I believe, to young ladies alone. 

Soph, (provoked and roused,) I believe, at 
least, political baronets, tho' not very old, do 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



but seldom fall into it. (archly.) And I 
know, papa, who this friend is that will so 
kindly take this office off your hands. Sir 
Craily will name him to you by-and-bye : it 
is a man who does not forget himself. 

Sea. (displeased.) What is the meaning of 
this, Sophia ? I never saw you thus petulant 
before : I beg of you to retire ; Sir Crafty and 
I must not be interrupted. 

Hop/i. I vvill retire, my dear Sir — but oh ! 
(taking her father's hand and pressing it.) but 
oh ! — you know what I would s;iy to you. 
[Exit, casting a significant look to Seahnght 
as she goes out. 

Sea. (after a considerable pause.) Sir Crafty, 
there is irmch in what you say, and 1 believe 
you are perfectly disinterested in the advice 
you give mo ; but I don't know that I could 
justify myself to my own mind in refusing 
this office. 

Sir C. There are few men less interested 
than myself ; I will say it, Sir Anthony; I 
will say it proudly. — Pardon me, however, I 
do not presume to advise you ; but hearing 
Lord Clacker, and the Marquis of Lackland, 
and some others, talking of your speech, and 
the usual race of such abilities, and so forth, 
many suggestions arose in my mind, in regard 
to you, my dear Sir, which I very naturally 
supposed just now might have presented 
themselves to your own. 

.Sett. Ha ! did Lord Clacker and the Mar- 
quis of Lackland talk of my speech, and my 
abili — I mean the probable effects of my situ- 
ation and connexions .' 

Sir C. I assure you they spoke of both in 
a way very gratifying for a friend, so much 
interested in your promotion as 1 am, to hear 
— but remember, I give you no advice : I am 
a young man, and apt, perhaps, to be too san- 
guine where the admiration of talents may 
mislead me : I am too presumptuous to men- 
tion my opinion at all. 

Sea. (Inking his hand with warmth.) O no ! 
I like you the better for it ! to be warmly san- 
guine is characteristic and graceful in youth ; 
and perhaps this propensity does not more 
often mislead it than the timorous caution of 
age. — You mcntion'd a friend to whom I 
might resign my pretensions to this office .' 

Sir C. 1 did, Sh' Anthony ; but I now feel 
an embarrassment. — I'm sure it would never 
have enter'd into my imagination to think of 
it. But will you be kind enough to take a 
turn with me in the garden .■' there are some 
things that must be explain'd to you at length, 
lest you should at all misconceive what 1 am 
going to propose to you. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — the servants' hall; and 

ROBERT DISCOVERED PULLING SOME 
CLOTHES OUT OF A BAG, AND LAUGH- 
ING TO HIMSELF AS HE LOOKS AT 
THEM. 

Enter Cook-Maid. 
Cook. Are you here, Robert ? 



Rob. Yes, beef drippings ; what do you 
want .'' 

Cook. It is ghost-time, don't you know .' 
and your night for it too. 

Rob. Indeed ! 

Cook. Ay, indeed I I groan'd last night, 
and Gardener the night before ; so e'en take 
your own turn when it comes to you: you 
was the first contriver of the plot. 

Rob. Why don't you see me preparing, 
hussy .'' I'm going to dress myself up this very 
night for the grand cqntasterfy, as a learned 
person would call it. 

Cook, (clapping her hands.) Ogriskinsand 
gravy, but that be delightful ! Are you to 
appear to her to-night.' 

Rob. Yes, wench ; for my master is in town, 
and is not expected back before to-morrow. 
(Holding out the clothes.) How do you like 
this black robe.' Has it not a smack of the 
devil in it.' 

Cook. Black ! I thought you were to have 
been all in white, like my late lady, and to 
have tlireaten'd her for being so unkind to" 
the children. 

Rob. So I intended, Deborah ; but I don't 
know how, a qualm came across my lieart; 
and would not let me make a mockery and a 
semblance of my dear mistress ;, so we'll just 
make the devil do, my fat Deborah ; he'll 
serve our turn well enough. 

Cook. Yes; he serves many a turn, if all 
that is said of him be true. 

Rob. How do you like that black hood 
with the horns to it .' it is all my own contriv- 
ance. 

Cook. O it will do hugeously ! 

Rob. And pray mix a little sooty grease for 
my face, cooky; and let me have some brick- 
dust to make a red staring ring round my 
eyes. 

Cook. Thfit I will in a trice ! But where 
is your tail, master devil ? Will the jack- 
chain be of any use to you .' 

Rob. No, no ! let her once have a good look 
of my horns, and my red staring eyes, and I 
warrant you she'll never miss my tail. 

Cook. Good success to you ! 

Rob. I don't doubt of success ; for my lady 
has lived a great part of her life in an old cas- 
tle in the North, and has as good a notion of 
a ghost or a goblin as most folks. 

Cook. He, he, he I Some folks will be 
warm enough to-night without frying cutlets. 
And bless you, man! if Mrs. Pry should come 
in your way, give her a claw for my sake. 

iiob. O never doubt that, hussy I — And 
here, in good time, comes Sharp to settle his 
part of the business; for you know we are to 
o-ive his master a claw too, as well as Mrs. 
Pry. 

Enter Sharp. 

Cook. Come away, Sharp ; which of us all 
is to visii .your master's chamber to-night in 
the shape of the lady that he jilted, as you told 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



227 



us of, because her rich uncle chose to marry 
whilst their wedding clothes were a-making, 
and who took it so much to heart, poor thing ! 
that she died soon after of the small-pox ? I 
should not much care to do it myself. 

Sliarp. No, cooky, we have a better plan 
than that I 

Cook. Wliat is it, man ? 

Sharp. Tho" he laughs at Miss Seabright 
as a girl from the nursery, he has taken a 
strong desire to know whether she likes him 
or not; and, above all, what fortune she is to 
have : now I have promised to set Pry a talk- 
ing to her lady about this, when she puts her 
to bed to-night, and to place him snugly in 
the adjoining chamber where he may hear 
every word that they say. 

Rob. You have told him there is no danger 
of being discover'd, as that room is always 
kept lock'd, and that you have stolen the key 
of It.' 

Sharp. You may be sure of that. 

Rob. Then you may be sure the devil won't 
fail to take that chamber on his way from 
Lady Sarah's, and pay his respects to him in 
passing. Come, come ! let us all set about 
it ! I'll dress in my own garret. Take some 
of those things in your hand. (Giving Cook 
some of the clothes to carry, and taking the 
rest himself.) [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — l.'Vdy Sarah's bed-room, 

ALMOST DARK, WITH A FEEBLE LIGHT 
THROWN ACROSS THE FLOOR, AS FROM 
A BAD FIRE. 

Enter Sir Crafty Sdpplecoat and Sharp, 
stealing softly on their tiptoes. 

Sir C. Hist, hist ! which is the door, 
Sharp ? 

Sharp. Never fear. Sir ; come this way. 
(opening the door of an adjoining room.) Go 
in, Sir, and fear nothing. But you must sit 
in the dark, and not be impatient : Pry won't 
fail to pump her lady, and you'll hear every 
word that is said, {putting Sir Crafty into 
the room, and pretending to lock the door upon 
him, then Exit laughing to himself as he goes 
mit.) 

Enter Lady Sarah and Pry, carrying lights, 
by the same door by which Sharp went out, 
allowing him time to get out of the way with- 
out meeting him. 

Prij. {setting doum the lights.) Well, I wish 
this night were well over, for I had such 
strange dreams last night. * 

Lady S. Don't trouble me with your 
dreams now. Have you put <ill my muslin 
things into the press, and screw'd them well 
down .'' 'When the creases are taken out of 
them, they will do perfectly well to wear 
another day. 

Pry. To be sure, my Lady; but for that 
old petticoat, if I do but touch it, it comes to 
pieces; it grieves me to see your Ladyship 



dragging it about like a cobweb that the flies 
have been thro' ; it would tear up into such 
pretty handkerchiefs ! 

Lady S. Will it .'' as large as those I com- 
monly wear .'' 

Pry. O no ! I don't mean such handker- 
chiefs as you would wear, my Lady, but 
just ' 

Lady S. Don't tease me now. — Have you 
heard any of those noises to-night.' {seating 
herself in a chair near the front of the stage.) 

Pry. La no ! my Lady ; did you hear any 
thing ? 

Lady S. No, nothing at all : why do you 
look so frighten'd .' 

Pry. I'm sure the very thoughts of it has 
made my teeth to chatter like a spoon in an 
empty dish. I never heard of such things be- 
ing heard in any house, except the old Castle 
of Allcrest, just before the Earl, your grand- 
father, died. Mercy on us ! there was no 
such noises heard in our villao-e. 

Lady S. Apparitions seldom visit people of 
low condition, Prj'. 

Pry. God be praised for it! I hope this 
here will be of the same way of thinkino-. I 
would not be a great lady and have ghosts 
grunting atm}' bed-side for the whole univer- 
sal world. If yoi," please, my Lady, I should 
like to go up to Susan as soon as may be, 
pardon my boldness, for she is as frighten'd 
as I am ; and 1 may chance to meet some- 
thing on the stairs, if I am much later; and I 
know very well, my Lady, you're not afraid. 

Lady S. No, I'm not afraid, but I don't 
know how — I have a little of I don't know 
what, that has come upon me. — You had bet- 
ter sleep on the couch by my bed to-night ; I 
may want my drops in the night time. — 
What o'clock is it.' 

Pry. (looking at the watch.) Mercy on usl it's 
just the very time when it begins. — What's 
that .' ° {alarmed.) 

Lady S. Nothing ; I heard nothing, {a long 
pause; then a deep groan is heard from the bot- 
tom of the stage.) Come, come I stand closer 
to me. Pry. {taking hold of Pry.) It had a 
strange, hollow, unnatural sound. 

Pry. Yes; just Uke a body speaking oul 
of a coffin. 
(£ pause, and theji a second groan is heard, 

louder than the first.) 

Lady S. Stand closer still, I beseech you : 
that was horrible ! {putting out her hand, trem- 
bling.) Whe — wlie — wh'ere is the bell-rope ? 

Pry. O la ! you know well enough it hangs 
in the other end of the room. 

Lady S. Go pull it then : pull it violently. 
(Pry hesitates, and seeyns very umcilling to go.) 
Go, I say ! (Pry goes ; and as she is half-way 
across the room, another groan, followed by a 
terrible hold, is heard, and she runs back again 
to Lady Sarah.) 

Lady S. O go and do it ! for heaven's sake ! 
for God's sake ! for mercy's sake do it I (Pry 
then goes sidling across the floor, looking on 
every side icith terror and suspicion, till she gets 



SECOND AiARRIAGEt A COMEDY. 



to the bell-rope which hangs by the head of the 
bed and near the door of the room ; when, put- 
ting out her hand to pull it, Robert, dressed like 
the'devU, rises from, behind a great chair close to 
the bed. Pry screams and runs out of the door, 
whilst he gives her a r.la.io in the passing, and 
then advames towards tliefront of the stage to 
Lady Sarali.) 

Ladii S. (shrlnlringback as he advances.) O 
come no nearer, whatever thoube,tJiou black 
and horrible sight ! {Devil still advances.) O 
come no nearer ! in the holy name of 

Devil. Baw! (giving a great howl, and still 
advancing.) 

Lady S. In the blessed name of 

Devil. Baw ! (giving another howl, and 
coming eery near her.) 

Lady S. (falling upon her knees, and clasp- 
ing her hands together.) O, as thou art awful, 
be merciful ! O touch me not, for I am a 
miserable sinner ! 

Devil. Yea, thou art — yea, thou art — yea, 
thou art, and thou shalt smart. Ill deeds 
thou dost, and thou shalt roast, {holding his 
great claw over^her.) 

LadyS. {contracting all her body together , 
and sinking doion upon the floor.) O, as Ihou 
art horrible, be merciful ! What shall 1 do.? 
what shall I do .? 

Devil. Be kind to thy husband's children, 
or I will tear 

Lady S. Oyes. yes ! 

Devil. Give them jjood victuals, and good 
education, and good clothing, or I will tear 
thee — 

Lady S. Oyes, yes! 

Devil. And give no more good things to 
Tony than the rest, or I will — {starting hack 
upon Iiearing a loud knocking at the street- 
door.) What's that.' 

Lady S. {raising her head and seeing him 
farther off.) No more good things to Tony 
than the rest ! It was no devil that spoke 
those words, I'm sure. 

{taking courage, and getting up) 

Devil aside, after moving farther off and list- 
ening.) Faith I'll turn and give her a claw 
yet r I shall never have another opportunity. 
{approaching her again.) 

Lady S. Get along ! I know you well 
enough: you are no devil, but a rascally 
knave, {setting herself in a posture of de- 
fence, when a noise is heard without, and he, 
taking alarm, makes a hasty exit into the ad- 
joining chamber.) 

Enter Seabrioht, and Pry coming fearfully af- 
ter him. 
Sea. Where is this devil that Pry has been 
telling me of.' 

Ladii S. {pointing to the adjoining room.) 
Follow him, my dear Sir Anthony ! Follow 
after the rascal. 

[Exit Seabright into the adjoining room. 
Lady S. {calling to him.) Be sure you don't 
let him escape. — Have you caught him yet .' 
Sea. {within.) Yes, I have caught him. 



Lady S. Give him a good beating then 
don't spare him ! he's a good brawny devil I 

don't spare him ! 

(j3 great scuff e is heard within, and Sea, 
calls to Lady S.) I'm dealing with him rough- 
ly enough, if that will satisfy you. {lie then 
calls out as if speaking to the Devil.) And 
take that, and that, and that too, you diaboli- 
cal rascal ! You nmsthave midnight frolicks 
in my house, must j'ou .-' 

Enter Sophia alarmed. 

Sophia. What is all this ? did I not hear 
my father's voice.'' 

Lady S. (looking suspiciously at her:) Yes, 
you know nothing of the matter, innocent 
lamb ! 

Pry. I hope my master will give him a 
sound beating, for I know well enough it is 
that knave Robert : I could smell the very 
stink of his tobacco as lie claw'd me in the 
passing. 

Lady S. Drag him to the light. Sir Antho- 
ny, let us see him stript of his devil's skin. 
Ha ! here he comes. 

Enter .Seabright dragging in Sir Crafty Sup- 
PLECOAT, who is pulled along very unwilling- 
ly, and hiding his face with his arm. 

Pry. Why that an't like him neither. 
Come, come ; take down your arm, and let 
us see who you are. (pulling down his arm, 
and discovering iiisfacc.) 

Jill, {exclaiming.) Sir Crafty Supplecoat ! 

Soph, {clapping her hands.) O I'm glad of 
thatl I'm so glad that it is only Sir Crafty! 

1 should have been grieved indeed if it had 
been poor Robert. And so it is you. Sir 
Crafty ! ha, ha, ha, ha ! {Jill join her in 
laughing heartily, ^i'hilst Robert, liaving pull- 
ed off' his devil's dress, enters accompanied by 
Sharp and somcof the other servants, and joins 
also in the laugh.) 

Lady S. {going up to Sir Crafty with great 
indignation.) And so. Sir Crafty Supplecoat, 
it is to your midnight mummery I am indebt- 
ed for the stern and solemn threatenings I 
have received ! I have been visited I find by 
a devil of consequence. Your earnest zeal 
for my reformation is, indeed, very flattering. 

Sea. Sir Crafty, mean and despicable as 
j'ou must appear to me, I have too much re- 
spect for your situation in life to expose you 
any longer to this open humiliation and dis- 
grace. Come with me to my dressing room. 

Sir C. I protest to you, Sir Anthony, and 
to Lady Sarah^ and to all the world if they 
were here present, that 1 am no wise con 
cern'd in what you suspect me of. 

Lady S. O, certainly you protest. Sir Craf- 
ty ! but do you think that will pass upon me .? 
Have I not known you since you were a boy 
but so high, with all your little, artful, wrig- 
gling, under-hand ways of getting your play- 
fellows' toys from them, which I always de- 
spised and contemned .' To be sure, you will 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



229 



protest any thing, and in the politest manner 
too ; you will send a message to Sir Antho- 
ny to-morrow morning, I doubt not, to in- 
quire how he does; and to hope that his fists 
are not too much fatigued with their last 
night's exertions, (all titc servants laugh 
again.) 

Sea. Come, come, this is too bad ! Retire 
with me, Sir Crafty : you can say nothing for 
yourself at this moment, lam sorry I have 
rib-roasted you so unmercifully ; can you 
walk f 

Sir C. {verij shortly.) Yes, yes. 

Roh. O we'll help hie honour (going up 
with Sharp, very provokinghj,to assist him.) 

Sir C. Keep off, scoundrels ! you are at 
the bottom of all this. [Exeunt Seabright 
leading out Sir Crafty in a very rueful plight, 
followed by Lady Sarah and Sophia, and the 
servants endeavouring to stifle their laughter. 

.Scene IV, — seabright's library, a 

GREAT NOISE AND CONFUSION OF VOI- 
CES IS HEARD WITHOUT. 

Seabright. (speaking withmit.) Torment me 
no more with these things ! I will hear no 
more complaints, and no more explanations I 
let me have peace, I beseech you, in mine 
own house, for one half hour at least. (He 
enters much disturb' d. shutting the door vio- 
lently behind, him, and ■pacing up and down the 
room, sometimes muttering to himself, and 
sometimes speaking aloud.) What '. is there 
no getting on in this upward path of hon- 
our, unless we tear our way through all these 
briars and nettles? — Contention and misery 
at home ! is this the price we pay for honour 
and distinction in the world .' Would no hon- 
ours take root on my untoward soil, till I had 
grubb'd up every sprig and shoot of comfort 
to make room for them f It were better to be 
a paniered jack-ass, and pick up my scanty 
provender from the ditch, than be a garter'd 
peer in such a home as this. — I had once a 
home ! {beating his heel rapidly upon the floor.) 
— Well, well, well ! I have .lush'd my bark 
from the shore, and I must take wind and 
tide as they set. 

Enter Servant. 

Who comes to disturb me now ? 

Ser. A packet, please your honour, from 
Mr. Plausible. 

Sea. (eagerly.) Ha ! give it me. [Exit 
Ser.) Yes, it is the plan, (tearing off the cov- 
er.) I hold in my hand perhaps, that which 
shall put every domestic arrangement on such 
an ample footing, as must extinguish these 
petty broils, (a pause, and then his countenance 
lightening up eagerly.) Ah, do I indeed grasp 
in this handful of paper the embryo of my fu- 
ture fortune .-" In faith I could almost believe 
that 1 do ! Let me go to my closet and exam- 
ine it. [Exit. 



Scene V. — a room in the inn. 

Enter Seabright and Landlady speaking as 
they enter. 

Sea. So, Mr. Plausible is not yet come .' 
Land. No, your honour, not as I know of. 
There is a dark-looking, lank gentleman in 
the cow-yard, just now, asking our Bridget 
how many pounds of butter maybe made out 
of one cow's milk in a }'ear. and sucli like, 
and setting all that she says down in his pock- 
et-book. He, he, he ! poor thing, she scarce- 
ly knows a cow from a sheep, by reason that 
she is but a poor pea-picking girl from St. 
Giles's, that has scarcely been a month in 
the country ; howsomever, he gets wonder- 
fully along with his information. 

Sea. Ay, that is him : he has a talent for 
picking up information upon every subject, 
and from every body : pray let him know T 
am here. (Exit Land.) — (After 'musing u 
little while ) Ten thousand a-year ! and the 
risk of failing but a mere trifle, not to be tak- 
en into the calculation. And his reasons are 
good, obvious, and convincing. But let me 
be moderate now : let me suppose that it on- 
ly brings me in six thousand a-year ; ev^cnthat 
will entitle me to a peerage. 

Enter Plausible. 

Plaix. 1 have a request to make to you, Sir 
Anthony. 

Sea. What is that, my dear Plausible ? 

Plau. When you purchase the large estate 
in Shropshire, will you let me have an easy 
lease of a good pasture farm or two upon it.' 
It will be a country retirement for me ; and T 
find on calculation that a hundred milk-cows, 
well fed and well managed, will bring in no 
contemptible revenue. 

Sea. (sviiling.) You talk of this estate with 
great confidence. Plausible. 

Piatt. Nay, I am only certain of putting the 
money to buy it into your pocket; you will 
purchase it or not, as you please. 

Sea. I begin, indeed, to think favourabh- 
of your scheme, and I appointed you to meet 
me here, that we might not be interrupted by 
Lady Sarah. Women, you know, are timor- 
ous, and have no idea of increasing a fortune 
except by saving. We shall look over your 
calculations together. If salt is raised but 
one penny in the pound, how mnny thousands 
do I put in my pocket .-' 

Pla7i. This paper will inform you exactly. 
And you see I have put but one penny upon 
the pound; for salt being a necessary of life, 
greatly to increase its price would be hare! 
and unfeeling ; it would make you unpopular 
in the country , and in the end create a resist- 
ance detrimental to its own ends. I am for 
moderate and sure gains. 

Sea. (taking the paper.) I esteem you ibr 
it ; my ideas coincide with yours most per- 
fectly in this particular: and the paper also, in 
which you have drawn out your plan for buy- 



sso 



SECX)ND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



ing up the rocksalt, I should be glad to look 
over that. 
Plan. Here it is in my pocket. 

Enter Beaumont and William Beaumont. 

Sea. (angrily.) Who comes now .' O it is 
you, Beaumont, We are busy; I shall come 
to you, by-and-bye, but at present I cannot 
be interrupted. 

Bea. I must speak with you, my friend. 

Sea. not at present — you see I am engaged. 

Bea. (beckoning him.) But one word in 
your ear, I beseech you. 

Sea. Yes, by-and-bye ; at present I am bu- 
ay with affairs of importance. 

Bcu. By-and-bye will, perhaps, be toolate ; 
I must speak with you immediately, (beckon- 
ing him again.) 

Sea. (impatiently.) I cannot speak with you 
just now, Beaumont, and I will not. 

Bea. No, no ! you will. If there be any 
love of God or any love of man in your heart, 
you will speak with me. 

Sea. (softened.) Well then, (goes to Beau- 
mont, toho whispers in his ear and endeavours 
to draio him aicay.) No, I won't go with you, 
Beaumont, to be retarded and cross'd with 
your fears and suspicions : speak out boldly, 
and Mr. Plausible will answer for himself. 
(smiling to Plan.) I believe we must explain 
our plan to this good friend of mine, for he 
thinks you are going to ruin me, and he is 
miserably afraid of projectors ; ha, ha, ha 1 

Pldu. (smiling placidly.) I esteem him for 
the interest he takes in his friend, and I don't 
condemn his suspicions : there are so many 
absurd schemes in the world, that it is pru- 
dent to be distrustful ; but I will shew him 
the firm ground on which we rest, and he will 
be satisfied. Do me the honour, my dear Sir, 
to sit down hy me, and I'll explain it to you. 
(to Beau.) 

Bea. Pray don't take that trouble, Mr. 
Plausible : I have no information for enabling 
me to judge of it : my mind has been little ex- 
ercised in regard to the money affairs of the 
world. But tliough I am not a man of the 
world, I have one or two things to say to my 
friend that I wish him to attend to. 

Sea. (smiling rather contemj)tnously.) Well, 
what are they, Beaumont ? you are, indeed, 
not a man of the world. 

Bea,. Every man who risks his fortune in 
any sclieme, believes he has good grounds to 
rest upon : they are such as appear feasible to 
him. 

Sea. Feasible ! ours is certain. 

Bea. (shaking his head.) A man who is 
anxious to get rich is apt to let iiis judgment 
be imposed upon, and forgets how many have 
fail'd in tlie same track before him. 

Sea. I wish those who are apt to give ad- 
vice, would take the same thing into their 
consideration. 

Bea. Nay, my friend, there is a social influ- 
ence which we all liave, even the meanest of 



us, over one another, and tiiere is more ad- 
vice taken in the world than you are aware 
of. But had every adviser from the begin- 
ning of time fail'd before me, 1 will neverbe- 
lievc that lie who pleads to a father in behalf 
of his own children will speak without effect. 
Hear me then ; let him wlio stands alone, run 
every risk to aggrandize liimself, but let a fa- 
ther — O let the father of a family consider ! 

Plan. You forget, my good Sir, that the 
father of a family has a higher motive than 
any other man to aggrandize himself. 

Sea. (vehemently.) Rather than not place 
my children in the situation I desire for them, 
I would iiave no children at all. 

Bea. (with warmth.) What, will you say of 
creatures passing onward to the noblest des- 
tination, you had rather they had never been, 
unless they can gather up so much dust and 
trash on their way .'' You think yourself an 
ambitious parent — O I would be for them a 
thousand times more ambitious than thou art. 

Sea. Yes, you will shape your son's for- 
tune out of the clouds, I make no doubt. 

(smiling contemptuously .) 

Will. B. (who has modestly kept behind, noio 
coming foncard with spirit.) Wherever my 
fortune may be shaped for me, to be the hon- 
est, well-principled son of an honest and 
good father, is a distinction I would not give 
up for all that you, and men like you, are 
scrambling for. (turning to Bea.) Come a- 
way, father ; they but mock at what you 
say. 

Bea. Let him inock if he will, but let him 
hear me. 

Plan. He will hear your advice with great 
pleasure from the pulpit, Mr. Beaumont. 

IVill B. It would have been happy for the 
unfortunate men who have listened to yours, 
Mr. Plausible, if they had received it from the 
sartie place, (jiidling Beaximont aicay.) Come 
away, father, you but waste words upon 
them. 

Bea. Nay, [ would yet try if there is not 
some heart in him to be moved. 

Sea. My dear Beaumont, you are a very 
good man, but you know nothing uf the mat- 
ter. 

Will B. (pulling away his father.) Leave 
them, leave tliem. Sir ! Good man, as he 
contemptuously calls you, you are also wise 
enough for me : and I would not exchange 
fathers with the proudest young lord in the 
kingdom. (Exeunt Bea. and Will. B., Will. 
putting his father's arm proudly binder his , and 
walking off with spirit.) 

Plan. We are obliged to that young dog, 
however, for taking him away. 

Sea. Yes; but we'll go to another room, for 
he may return again. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — seabright's library, he 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



231 



is DISCOVERED SITTING BY A TABLE 
FAST ASLEEP, ON WHICH ARE SCAT- 
TERED LETTERS AND PAPERS. 

Enter Pry softly behind on her tiptoes, and 

making a long neck to see what he is about. 

Pry. (shaking her head piteously.) Poor 
man ! poor man ! he can't sleep in his bed 
o'nights, and yet he has never committed any 
wicked crimes, that I ever heard of. 

Sea. (angrily, after speaking inarticulately 
to himself in his sleep.) You don't know my 
name ! (muttering again inarticulately.) The 
name of Lord Seabright ! muttering again, 
ichilst Pry slips still nearer to him, listening 
with a face of great curiosity.) I can't walk 
in ray robes any longer. — See how the crowd 
stares at me ; ha, ha, ha I (laughing uncouth- 
ly, and Pry drawing still nearer him, comes 
against a chair on her icay, the noise of 2ohich 
wakes him, and she retires precipitately.) — 
What's that.' rubbing his eyes and looking 
ro^ind.) It has been some noise in my dream. 
Ah I would it had been a reality ! — What a 
btisy, prosperous, animating world I have 
been in for these last two hours, (looking at 
his watch.) Ha ! I have slept only a quarter 
of an hour ; and I have enjoyed as many 
honours in that short term as would enrich 
my lifetime. — Shall they indeed enrich it ? — 
Wise men, in former ages, consider'd the vis- 
ions of our sleep as faintly sketching out 
what is to happen, like trees and castles seen 
thro' the morning mist, before the brighten- 
ing sun gives to them the distinct clearness of 
reality, (smiling aniviatcdhj.) In faith I could 
almost believe it ! There is that vigorating 
confidence within me which says I shall not 
stop short at these paltry attainments — A bar- 
onet ! every body now is a baronet. — My soul 
disdains the thought; (gives his chair a kick, 
and overturning it icith a great noise.) 
Enter Pry alarmed. 

Pry. O la. Sir ! what is the matter .' 

Sea. What, are you up, Pry .' Why are 
you out of bed so late ? 

Pry. Making your coffee, Sir. 

Sea. Did not I tell you to leave it on the 
lainp, and go to bed ^ 

Pry. Yes ; but I thought it would keep 
warmer, somehow, if I sat by it myself. 

Sea. (aside.) Great fool ! (aloud.) Let me 
have some of it, then ; my head will be clear- 
er afterwards for writing. [Exit 

Pry. (shaking her head, and looking after 
him as he goes out.) Poor man ! he would 
have every body to go to bed but himself. — 
What has he got here now .' (looking at the 
papers on the table.) Copies of letters to my 

Lord B , and notes for a speech on the 

salt duties ; and calculations. — O lud, lud ! 
What a power of trouble he does give him- 
self! Poor man I poor man ! (Exit in a hur- 
ry, calling out as she goes.) I just stay'd be- 
hind, Sir, to stir the fire for you. 

Scene II. — a room in the inn. 



Enter Mrs. Beaumokt and Landlady, by dif- 
ferent sides. 

Land. La, madam! here be the great Lord, 
Lady Sarah Seabright's brother, who wants 
to see you. 

Mrs. B. Wants to see me ? how conies this 
great condescension ? 

Land. I reckon, madam, that some misfor- 
tune has befallen him, and that makes some 
folks wonderfully well bred. I was just stand- 
ing at the door, a few minutes ago, and think- 
ing, to be sure, nothing at all of the matter, 
when who should I see drive past but my 
Lord, just turning the corner as he used to do 
to Sir Anthony's gate. Well, I thinks no 
more of the matter, when in a trice by comes 
that saucy-looking gentleman of his, that 
turns up his nose at my ale, and puts a letter 
into his lord's hand; upon which, after he 
had read it. he desired his postillions to turn 
round and set him down here. I'm sure as I 
am a living woman that something has hap- 
pen'd, for he came into the house with a face 
as white as my apron. 

Mrs. B. And wants to see me .' 

Land. Yes, madam ; he ask'd first of all 
for Mr. Beaumont, and finding he liad walk'd 
out, he ask'd next for you. 

Mrs. B. But how did he know we were 
here .' 

Land. La, madam ! he saw your cairriage 
in the yard ; and moreover your man told 
him that his master and mistress had stopp'd 
here on their way to Yorkshire, to see Sir An- 
thony's children. But here he comes, mad- 
am. " Save us all ! how proud and how vexed 
he looks ! [Exit. 

Enter Lord Allcrest. 

Lord A. Madam, I am sorry to find Mr._ 
Beaumount is gone out : I had something of 
importance to communicate to him, but 1 be- 
lieve it will be nearly the same thing if I im- 
part it to you. I — I — (seems embarrassed .) — 
It is an unfortunate affair. As to myself, I 
have little to do with it ; but it is right that 
the near relations of Sir Anthony Seabright 
should know, that his salt scheme has entire- 
ly ftil'd, and he is involved in utter ruin : they 
can communicate the dreadful tidings to him 
more properly than I can. 

Mrs. B. We are obliged to you, my Lord : 
it is a piece of intelligence we have every day 
expected to hear, but which does not certain- 
ly concern us more nearly than yourself; as I, 
who am SirAnthony's connexion, stand exact- 
ly in the same degree of relation to him with 
your Lordship. 

Lord A. Yes ; my sister, indeed, would 
gratify very foolishly a foolish inclination — 
but it is a recent thing, scarcely to be consid- 
er'd as a — a — a — he had many children by 
your sister, and lived with her many years. 

Mrs. B. (smiling tcith great contempt.) I 
don't know, indeed, at what time, from the 
date of a man's marriage, he ought to claim 



mi 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



affinity with liis wife's relations : perhaps it 
varies witii occurrences, and misfortunes cer- 
tainly have no tendency to shorten it. 

Lord Jl. Madam, let me have the honour to 
inform you, that there is no term in which 
tlie chief of a noble and ancient family can 
be contaminated by the inferior alliances of 
those individuals who belong to his family : 
such things are consider'd as mere adventi- 
tious circumstances. 

Mrk-. B. You teach me, my Lord, to make 
very nice distinctions ; and therefore, whilst 
I pay all respect to you as the representative 
of a noble family, you must likewise permit 
me to express for you, as an individual, sen- 
timents of a very opposite nature. 

Lord .1. Good breeding, madam, will not 
permit me to return such an answer as you 
deserve ; and therefore I will no longer in- 
trude on your time. 

Mrs. B. A better excuse, perhaps, might be 
found ; but any one will be perfectly accep- 
table that procures me the pleasure of wish- 
ing your Lordship good morning. 
As Lord Allcrest is about to go out, enter 

Beaumont and Morgan, and prevent him. 

Bea. I am sorry, my Lord, I was not in the 
way when you did me the honour to inquire 
for me. 

Lord Jl. {passing him abruptly with a slight 
bote.) Good morning, Sir ; good morning. 

Bea. (.'rol'ig aj'tcr him.) You are not going 
to leave me thus, my Lord, angry and dis- 
turb'd as you appear to be .'' I cannot suffer 
any body, man, woman, or child, to leave 
me offended, if it be possible for me to part 
with them on more amicable terms. I Hatter 
myself it is possible to do so on the present 
occasion : I am sure, — I am confident of it, if 
you will do jno the honour to explain in what 
way 1 can be useful to you. 

Lord A. 1 came here. Sir, upon no con- 
cerns of my own ; and the conversation I 
have h,iJ the honour to hold with this J-<ady, 
makes €any explanation of the business that 
i)rought me unnecessary. 

Bea. But slie is angry too, I perceive, and 
I will have no explanation from her. I knoW^ 
already the unfortunate afi'airs of poor Sea- 
bright ; and I can explain to myself the in- 
tention of your Lordship's visit : you must 
have the goodness to stay and hear if I ex- 
plain it right, {taking him hy the coat and 
prevr/iUing him from going.) Nay, nay, my 
Lord ! the spirit of charity and peace-mak- 
ing makes a well-meaning man very bold, — 
you shall stay. 

Lord Jl. (relenting and turning back.) I do 
believe, Mr. Beaumont, that you are a very 
•rood man. and as such I respect you; but 
Hince you already know the misfortune of Sir 
Anthony Seabright, and will, from the dic- 
tates of your own good heart, open the niat- 
fer to him in tlie beat manner possible, my 
i)usine8s with you is anticipated. 

.Mrs. B. Not, I believe, entirelv, my Lord , 



for he knows nothing at all, as yet, of those 
nice distinctions between individual and fam- 
ily relationship, which may be necessary to 
prevent him from forming any unreasonable 
expectations from a noble brother-in-law. I 
presume your Lordship means to hurry back 
to town again, without seeing Sir Antliony. 

Bea. Hold your tongue, Susan; your wpir- 
it is less mild than it ought to be, considering 
the warm good heart it belongs to. It is not 
80 : his lordship did not intend returning to 
town without seeing his distress'd friend ; 
you are wrong in the very outset of your ac- 
count. Is she not, my Lord ? 

Lord .4. {confused and hesitating.) If my 
seeing him could be of any real service, I 
should never — I could not certainly have 
thought of returning without seeing him. — 
But he has never attended to my opinions : 
my advice has been disregarded — and then, 
his damn'd vanity : he refrised an office the 
other day, which I had procured for him, that 
would have been a competency for life — it 
makes me mad to think of it. 

Bea. Ah, my Lord ! he is in that state in 
which a man's errours should be remeinber'd 
only by himself: he is in adversity. 

Lord Jl. He has thought only of himself 
I'm sure. 

Bea. His connection with your sister has 
indeed been unlucky : and I can, in some de- 
gree, sympathize with your resentment. 

Lord Jl. You mistake me, Sir; his con- 
nection with my sister is of no consequence 
to me ; and I shall take care that it shall be 
of as little to her as possible, for I will make 
her independent of him but children ! — risk 
inc every thing on one single stake, with a 
family of children ! — T am provoked beyond 
all measure when I think of this. 

Mrs. B. {bridling up.) His children, my 
Lord — 

Bea. Now pray, my dear, hold your tongue, 
if it be possible ! We are weak, passionate 
creatures : why should we rub and fret one 
another thus .' (to Lord A.) I praise you 
much, my Lord, for the interest you take in 
the children; but here is a good man (point- 
ing to Morgan. J who will 

Mot. Stop, stop, my good friend, and don't 
now lead me into any discussion upon this 
subject. I am disturb'd, and uncomfortable, 
and unequal to it. Take his Lordship by 
himself; and say to him what you please for 
me. {to Mrs. B.) Come with me, niece. 

[ExEirNT Mor. and Mrs. B. 

Eea. Let me have the pleasure of attend- 
ing your Lordship into the fields, where we 
can take a short turn or two, and speak of 
this subject at length : I see strangers arriv- 
ed ; and it is noisy here. 

Lord .4. .Most willingly. [Exeunt. 

SCENK in, SEABRIGHT'S HOUSE. 

Enter Seabright, followed by Sophia, the 
eldest boy, and the little girl 
Soph. Indeed, papa, you are in such good 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



233 



humour this morning we can't help following 
you. I hope we are not troublesome ; if we 
are, I'll take the children away. 

Sea. No, my good children, you are not trou- 
blesome ; you shan't go away. {The children 
hang on his coat, and look up in his face much 
pleased* 

Soph. They are so glad to hang upon you 
again, papa; and yon are so good-humour'd 
this morning ! 

Sea. I finish'd my papers last night ; and I 
have had some pleasant dreams too. — This is 
a cheerful, enlivening morning : every thing 
is in bright sunshine around us : it is like a 
day that wears good fortune on its face : — and, 
perhaps, it does. 

Soph. I hope it does : and now that you 
seem so happy, papa, I would fain plead to 
yoii in hehalf of a poor good man, who is not 
very happy at present. 

Sea. And who is that.' 

Soph. Ah, you know very well ; it is poor 
Robert. I know it was very wrong in him 
to frighten Lady Sarah ; but he meant it for 
our good, and he will break his heart if he is 
not Slow'd to be with us again. 

Sea. Say no more of this at present, So- 
phia ; and, perhaps, by-and-b}'e, he may re- 
turn to us again as your own servant. 

Soph. Ha ! (surprised.) 

Sea. Yes, my sweet girl ; I will be very 
liberal to you and to all my children : I will 
make a good amends to you for all that is 
past, (turning to the boy.) And you, my 
good boy, 1 must think of you by-and-bye. 
Thou art become a stout boy, George : let 
me look at thy face, (lifting up his hair from 
his forehead.) Ay, it is a comely face enough: 
it will make a Very good countenance for an 
admiral, or a general, or even for the woolsack, 
if thine inclination should lead thee that way. 
Let me feel thy weight too, young rogue. 
(taking him up in his arms.) Ah ! would 
now that I could but know the rank and em- 
inence of the future man I hold in these 
arms I 

Soph. My dear Sir, you are so good to us, 
and so good-humoured this morning, 1 could 
wao-er those letters by the post have brought 
you pleasant news. 

Sea. Letters by the post I 1 have received 
none. 

Soph. Then you have not read them yet. 
You slept so much longer than usual this 
morning, that you were not up when they 
came, and they were put on the table in the 
next room, (pointing off the stage.) 

Sea. Let me see them, then ; if they bring 
me any good news they are welcome. [Exit 
with a. Light active step. 

Soph. Now, children, did not I tell you 
yesterday that papa would love us again .' and 
you see he has begun to do it already. 

Boy. And so he does, Sophy ; and I'm sorry 

I spoke so naughtily of him, for my heart 

jumps so when he loves me ! (looking off the 

stage.) ' But see ! what is he about now., beat- 

29 



ing his forehead and walking up and down so 
strangely ? 

Soph. O dear ! something is the matter. 

[Exit, alarmed. 

Boy. (to little girl.) Now don't ask me for 
those marbles at present, Emma : I can't £nd 
them, I don't know where they are. (looking 
off the stage again.) O how terrible he looks ! 

Re-enter Seabright, with an open letter inhis 
hand, beating his bead with his clench'd hands, 
and tossing about his arm distractedly, follow- 
ed by Sophia, who seems frightened at him, 
and yet wishing to soothe him. A long pause, 
in which he paces up and down the stage fol- 
lowed by Sophia, whilst the children run into 
a corner, frightened, and stare at him. 

Soph . (after attempting in vain several 
times to speak.) My father ! my dear, dear 
father ! (he still paces up and doicn icithout 
heeding her.) O if you would but speak two 
words, and tell what is the matter with you, 
my dear, dear Sir ! 

Sea. lam ruined, and deceived, and un- 
done ! I am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — I have 
made beggars of you all ! 

Soph. O no, father ! that won't be ! for 
God's sake don't take on so violently ! 

Sea. (still pacing up and dovn, followed by 
Soph.) I am a bankrupt and a beggar ! — dis- 
grace, and ridicule, and contempt ! — Idiot, 
idiot, idiot ! O worse than idiot ! 

Soph. Dear father ! 

(The children run and take hold of Sophia., 
as she folloics him.) 

Sea. Come not near me — come not near 
me, children — 1 have made beggars of you 
all ! 

Soph: But we will come near you, my dear 
father, and love you, and bless you too, what- 
ever you have done. Ay, and if we are beg- 
gars, we will beg with you, and beg for you 
cheerfully. 

Sea. Oh, oh, oh ! This is more than I can 
bear! (Throws himself into a chair, quite over- 
come, ichilst the children stand gazing on him, 
and Sophia hangs over him affectionately.) 

Enter Lady Sarah. 

Lady S. What are you doing here, chil- 
dren .'—What is all this for ? — What is the 
matter with you. Sir Anthony ? — No answer 
at'all ? — What letter is this ? — (picks up the 
letter which Seabright had dropt in his agita- 
tion, and reads it ; then breaking out violently.) 
O, I told you it would come to this ! I coun- 
sell'd you — I warn'd you — I beseech'd you. 
O Sir Anthony ! Sir Anthony ! what devil 
tempted you to such madness as this .' 

Sojih. Oh, madam, do not upbraid him ! 
See how he is ! 

Ladif S. I see how it is, well enough : the 
devil, the devil of ambition has tempted him. 
— (going Clearer him with great vehemence.) 
Did not I tell you that with prudence 
and management, and economy, we should 
in the end amass a good fortune ? but you 



234 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



must be in sucli a Imrry to get rich ! — O it 
would got the bottcn- of a saint's spirit to think 
now I have saved, and regulated, and laid 
down rules for my household, and tiiat it 
should all come to this I — To have watched, 
and toiled, and fretted as I have done, and all 
to no purpose ! — If I did not begrudge the 
very food that was consumed in the family ! 
— If I did not try all manner of receipts that 
the wife of tlie meanest citizen would scarce- 
ly have thought of! — If I did not go a bar- 
gain-hunting thro' every shop in London, and 
purchase damaged muslins even for my own 
wearing ! — It is very hard — it is very hard, 
indeed. (Imrsthig into tears.) O it is enough 
to turn a woman's brains ! 

Sea. (starting up in a rage.) By heavens, 
madam, it is enough to turn a man's brains 
to think, that, in addition to the ruin I have 
brought upon myself and my children, I have 
taken to my bosom — I have set over their in- 
nocent heads, a hard-hearted, narrow, avari- 
cious woman, vidiose meanness makes me 
contemptible, whose person and character I 
despise ! — This, madam, the spirit of ambi- 
tion, which you talk of, has tempted me to do; 
and for this, more than all his other malice, I 
will curse him ! 

Soph, (endeavouring to soothe him.) Pray 
be not so violent with her ! she does not con- 
sider what she says — she did not intend to 
hurt you. 

Ldidy S. Sir Anthony Seabright, you are a 
base man and a deceiver : my brother shall 
know how you have used me : he has made 
you a Member of Parliament .and a Baronet. 

Sea. Yes, and a contemptible fool, and a 
miserable wretch into the bargain. But no, 
no, no I I have made myself so ; 1 deserve my 
punishment. — 

Enter Lord Allcrest, Beaumont, Morgan, 
Mrs.B. and William B. 

And here are more of my advisers and be- 
seechers come to visit me : advance, advance, 
good friends ! you are come to look upon a 
ruined man, and you ai-e gratified. 

Bea. (going up to him affectionately.) No, 
my dear Seabright ; in a very different spirit 
are we come : we come to sympathize with 
you, and to console you. 

Sea. I hate sympathy, and I hate consola- 
tion I You are come, I suppose, to sympa- 
thize with me too, my Lord, and to put me 
in mind of the danm'd place I have given up 
to that knave Sir Crafly Supplecoat. 

Lord A. No, Sir Anthony, I scorn to up- 
braid, but I pretend neither to sympathize 
with you nor to console you : I come to res- 
cue my sister from a situation unworthy of a 
daughter of the house of Allcrest. and she 
shall go home with me. 

Sea. Nay, by the sincerity of a miserable 
man, but you do console me. — Take her o' 
God's name ! 1 received her not half so wil- 
lingly as I resign her to you again, (taking 
Lady Sarah's liand to give her to her brother, 



which she pulls aioay from him angrily, and 
going up to Lord Allcrest, gives him her hand 
as an act of her own.) 

I/idy S. If my brother will, indeed, have the 
goodness ! 

Boy. (skipping joyfully.) Sophy ! sifter So- 
phy ! she is going away fro m us ! is not that 
nice .'' 

Soph. Hush, George ! 

Sea. (to Mrs. B. on perceiving her smile to 
herself.) Yes, madam, I make no doubt but 
all this is very amusing to you — you are also 
come, no doubt, to bestow upon me your con- 
tribution of friendly sympathy. 

Mrs. B. Indeed, Sir Anthony, recollecting 
the happiness you have enjoyed, and the wo- 
man that shared it with you, 3'ou are entitled 
to no small portion of pity. 

Bea. (to Mrs. B.) Fie upon it ! fie upon it, 
Susan ! can't you hold out your hand to him, 
and forgive him nobly, without tacking those 
little ungracious recollections to it ? (to Sea.) 
Indeed, my dear Seabright, you look upon us 
all with the suspicious eye of an unfortunate 
man; but we are truly come to you in kind- 
ness and Christian simplicity ; and we bring 
you comfort. 

Sea. Yes, Beaumont, you come to me in 
simplicity. What comfort can you bring to 
me, ruined as I am .' all my fair prospects 
blasted ! all my honours disgraced ! sunk 
even to obscurity and contempt ! you are in- 
deed come in great simplicity. 

Bea. What comfort can we bring you .' 
does grandeur and riches include the whole 
of human happiness, that you should now 
feel yourself inconsolable and hopeless .' Can- 
not a quiet, modest retreat, independent of the 
bustle of the world, still bea situation of com- 
fort ? 

Sea. I know what you, mean : contempti- 
ble, slothful obscurity. 

Bea. You mistake me. Sir Anthony; re- 
spectable and useful privacy. 

Sea. I understand you well enough : hope- 
less and without object — I abhor it ! 

Bea. What, Seabi-ight ! can a man with a 
family to grow up around him, be hopeless 
and without object ? Come here, children, and 
speak for yourselves, (he takes the children 
in his hands, and encouraging Sophia to come 
forward, they sm777*«/u/ Seabright.) 

Sojih. (after cndra con ring in vain to speak, 
and kissing her father's hand tenderly.) O my 
dear father ! in the loneliest cottage in Eng- 
land I could be happy with you. I would 
keep it so neat and comfortable, and do every 
thing for you so willingly ; and the children 
would be so good, if you would but love us 
enough to be happy with us. 

Sea. (catching her in his arms.) Come to 
my heart, my admirable girl ! thou truly hast 
found the way to it, and a stubborn unnatu- 
ral heart it has been. — Butl will love you all 

yes, my children, I will love you enough 

to be happy with you. (j}ausing.) I. hope I 
shall— I think I shall. 



SECOND MARRIAGE i A COMEDY. 



235 



IVill. B. {eagerly.) Yes, you will ! yes, you 
will I if there be one spark of a true man in 
your breast, you will love thera to the last 
beat of your heart. 

Bea. {smiling affectiontttely on his son.) Get 
away, stripling ! your warmth interrupts us. 

Sea. O no I let him speak ! — say all of you 
what you please to me now : say any thing 
that will break the current of my miserable 
thoughts; for we are at this moment indulg- 
ing fancies as illusive as those that formerly 
misled me ; even the cottage that we talk of, 
a peaceful home for my children, is no long- 
er in my power. 

Bea. {going up to Morgan.) Now, my friend, 
this is the time for you to. step forth, and 
make a subdued father and his innocent chil- 
dren happy : bestow your wealth liberally, and 
the blessings that will fall upon your grey 
head shall well reward the toils and dangers 
that have earn'd it. 

(leading him to Seabright.) 

Sea. Ha ! what stranger is this .■■ I observed 
him not before. 

Bea. Speak for yourself now, Mr. Morgan ; 
I will do no more for you. 

Sea. Mr. Morgan, the uncle of my Caroline! 

Mor. Yes, Sir Anthony, and very much 
disposed, if you will give him leave, to — to 
love — to befriend — to be to you and yours — 
to be the uncle and friend of you all. {speak- 
ing in a broken agitated voice.) 

Sea. O no ! I am unworthy to receive any 
thing from you — from the uncle of my much- 
injured wife ; but these children, Mr. Mor- 
gan — I am not too proud to ask you to be a 
friend to them. 

Bea. {hastily to Sea.^ Poo, man ! you have 
no real goodness in you, if you cannot per- 
ceive that he must and will be a friend, to 
yourself also. Come, come ! give him a hand 
of fellowship ! {jjutting Seabright's ha?id into 
Morgan's) Now, God will bless you both ! 
■ Mor. If Sir Anthony will permit an old 
man, who has past thro' many buftetings of 
fortune, to draw his arm-chair by hira in the 
evening of his life, and tell over the varied 
hardships he has met with, he will cheer its 
gloom, and make it pass more pleasantly. 
(Sea. presses Morgan's haiid to his breast, 
without speaking.) 

Mrs. B. (to Mor.) Well said, and graceful- 
ly said, my good uncle ! did not I tell you, 
you would go through your part well, if you 
would but trust to the dictates of your own 
good heart .' 

Bea. O there is nobody, when he does what 
is noble and right, that does not find a way of 
doing it gracefully. 

Mrs. B. {to Sophia, icho is going up timid- 
ly to Mor.) Yes, that is right, my dear. Come, 
children, (leading the children up to him.) gath- 
er all about him. Yes, take hold of him ; don't 
be afraid to touch him ; it does young people 
good to pat the cheeks of a benevolent old 
man. (Mor. embraces them affectionately.) 

Will. B. {joining the children in caressing 



Mor.) — My dear Mr. Morgan, I love you with 
all my soul ! — And my sweet Sophy — my 
good Sophy, don't you love him too .' — She is 
such a good girl, Mr. Morgan I 

Mor. So she is, William : and she must 
have a good husband by-and-bye to reward 
her. I dare say we shall find ' somebody or 
other willing to have her. {smiling archly up- 
on William, who looks abashed ; and letting 
go. Sophy's hajid retires behind.) 

Sea. {to Mor.) I have now voice enough, 
my generous friend, to say that 1 am sensible 
of your goodness : but there are feelings 
which depress me 

Mor. Say no more about it, my good Sir.; 
I am happy, and I would have every body to 
rejoice with me. 

Lord A. {to Mor. leading forward Lady Sa- 
rah.) And every body does rejoice with you, 
my good Sir. Perinit me to assure you, that 
tho', perhaps, somewhat injured with the 
ways of the world, I have not been an unfeel- 
ing spectator of what lias pass'd ; and I be- 
lieve Lady Sarah also has not looked upon it 
with indifference, {turning to Sea.) .Vow, 
Sir Anthony, 1 would, if possible, part friends 
with you ; and 1 have a favour to request, 
which will, if it is granted, make me forget 
every unpleasant thing that has pass'd be- 
tween us. 

Sea. Mention it, my Lord ; I will not wil- 
hngly refuse you. 

Lord Jl. My sister has just now told me, 
that she will leave you without regret, if you 
will let her have your youi\gest boy to live 
with her : I join my request to her's. 

Boy (eagerly.) What, take Tony away 
from us ! no, but she shan't tho' ! 

Sea. I am much obliged to you, my Lord, 
and to Lady Sarah also ; but I cannot find in 
my heart to divide my children. He shall, 
however, visit her frequently, if she will per- 
mit him ; and if she will have the goodness 
to forget the hasty words of a passionate man, 
and still take an interest in any thing that be- 
longs to him, he will be gratified by it. 

Soph. And I will visit Lady Sarah too, if 
she will have the goodness to permit me. 

Lady S. I thank you, my dear ; it is, per- 
haps, more than I deserve, (to Mrs. B.) And 
may I hope, madam, that you will forget 
whatever unpleasant things may have pass'd 
between us.' 

Bea. (interrtipting his wife as she is about 
to speak.) Now answer her pleasantly, my 
dear Susan ! (Mrs. B. smiles pleasantly, and 
gives her hand to Lady Sarah.) Now every 
thing is right. O it is a pleasant thing to find 
that there is some good in every human being ! 

Enter a "Servant, and whispers to Bea. 

Is he here.' let him enter then. 

Sea. Who is it .' I can see nobody now. 

Bea. Don't be alarmed : it is a friend of 
your's, who has offended you, and takes a very 
proper season to be forgiven. It is one who 
durst not, in your prosperity, shew you the ex 



236 



SECOND MARRIAGE : A COMEDY. 



tent of his attachment ; but he has now come, 
for he has already open'd his mind to me up- 
on hearing of your misfortunes, to put into 
your hands, for the benefit of your children, 
all the little money he has saved, since he 
first began to lay up one mite after another, 
and to call it Iris own property. 

Sea. Who can that be .'' 1 did not think 
there was a creature in the world that bore us 
so much affection. 

Enter Robert, who starts back upon seeing so 
many people. 

Bea. Come in, my good Robert : (taking his 
hand and leading liim forward,) thou need'st 
Hot be ashamed to shew thy face here : there 



is nobody here who will not receive thee gra- 
ciously, not even Lady Sarah herself. 
{Tlic children and every body gather round 
Robert.) 

Sea. (coming foricard with Bea.) Ah, my 
dear Beaumont, what a charm there is in do- 
ing good ! it can give dignity to the meanest 
condition. Had this unlucky scheme but suc- 
ceeded, for if we could have but weather'd it 
a little while longer, it must have succeeded, 
I should have been — I think 1 should have 
been munificent as a prince. 

Bea. Ah, no more of that, my dear friend ! 
no more of that! such thoughts are danger- 
ous, and the enemy is still at hand : chide the 
deceiver away from you, even when he makes 
his appearance in the fair form of Virtue. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 
THE SECOND EDITION. 



In the language of the two Tragedies of this 
voliime, a few shght alterations, 1 hope for 
the better, will be found from that of tlie first 
edition, so slight indeed, that I scarcely know 
whether or not they deserve to be mentioned. 
As for the Comedy, believing it has been 
generally disliked, I have been afraid to touch 
it, lest, going over it again, deprived of that 
animation so favourable to amendment which 
encouragement always gives, I should make 
it worse instead of better. 

Several of my friends, since Rayner was 
published, and one of them, I must confess, 
for whose judgment 1 have the highest respect,, 
before it was pubhshed, have objected to the 
description of the flooded river, Act v. Scene 
iii. as very improper in the circumstances 
under which it is introduced. I readily grant 
it may be apt to appear so at first sight ; but 
1 should think, that when those circumstan- 
ces are more perfectly considered, this objec- 
tion will be considerably weakened. When 
the Countess and Confessor are told the bridge 
is broken down, the distance which the Mes- 
senger must then go, in the short time allowed 
for it, is so great that it seems impossible, and 
therefore overwhelms their thoughts. To have 
desired the Messenger, notwithstanding, to 
mount his horse and set off immediately, 
would, as far as I am able to judge, not have 
been natural ; for it is upon slight, not upon 
great, occasions that the mind recovers itself 
sufficiently from disappointment to give direc- 
tions immediately as to what is next to be done. 
I have supposed the Countess and Confessor 
not as listening to the Messenger's description, 
but as recovering, while he speaks, from the 
shock, and considering whether their object 
is still possible. The difficulty here seems to 
me to be this ; whether is it most natural for 
the Messenger himself, just returned from be- 
holding an awful sight in nature, to have his 
mind most engrossed witli that, or with the 
idea of riding to the town in time to save the 
prisoner, a thing which appears to him abso- 
lutely impossible .' for it should be remembered 
that till they call him upon the stage, he has no 
idea of the nature of the errand for which he 
was kept in readiness, therefore, it could not 
beforehand have interested his mind. If the 
first of tliese suppositions is most natural, I 
should tiiink I am in a good degree justified 
in introducing this passage ; if the last, I am 
certainly wrong. It is a fault, however, 
easily rectified by drawing a pen across every 
line of the speech except the two first ; and 
if the play should ever be acted, this must be 
done for another reason, viz. that no theatre 
could affiDrd to put into such an insignificant 
character as that of a Messenger an actor 



capable of reciting it. — Another objection'may 
be made to this speech, that people in his sit- 
uation do not make such speeches. People 
in his situation of life will not, it is true, to 
any length make speeches of sentiment and 
reflection ; but the strong impression made 
upon them by a grand and awful object, will 
put them, for the time being, in possession of^ 
a power of language and strength of descrip- 
tion whicli I am not vain enough to suppose 
I can equal. The language of description, 
having nothing to do with Artificial phrases or 
abstract words, is more equally at the com- 
mand of all ranks of men than any other, that 
o^ strong passion excepted. 

It has also been, objected, from many differ- 
ent quarters, that the incident of Ohio sawing 
across the main beam of the scaffold, &c. is a 
very bad one, aud so absurd, that it would set 
an audience into a roar of laughter. That it 
is not a good one I very readily admit ; but, 
in representation, the absurdity, or I ought 
rather to say, ludicrousness of it, so far from 
being more obvious, would be less so than in 
the closet. In reading a play, what is repre- 
sented as passing upon the stage, and what is 
related as passing elsewhere, are both brought 
before the imagination witli nearly equal 
strength; but. in representation, what is only 
related sinks into a degree of dimness and 
distance, by which it is almost comparatively 
annihilated. This incident, however, is most 
certainly not happily conceived, and as it is 
all comprised within the compass of a very 
iew lines, might easily be changed into any 
other in which Ohio is still made the agent, 
by any person who should be willing to bring 
this play before an audience. 

In Act first of Constantine, Scene ii, I find 
that my meaning has been sometimes misun- 
derstood. It never once entered into my idea 
to represent the Emperor as yielding to his 
wife's fears, so far as to send his friends to 
face the danger threatened from the outrage- 
ous multitude without him. I have made him, 
whilst he appears to yield, put such conduct 
in the meanest and most contemptible light, 
trusting that her generous nature would re- 
volt from it, as an easier way of making her 
submit to the necessity than giving a deter- 
mined refusal. In a narrative, where all the 
secret thoughts of the heart can be as easily 
made known as those which a character is 
made to utter, there is little excuse eitlier for 
leaving your meaning in a doubtful state, or 
bringing it out too laboriously ; but, in a story 
carried on entirely, or almost entirely, in 
dialogue, it is very difficult to avoid both these 
faults, into which I confess I am too apt 
to fall. 



TO THE READER 



Though I have already met with so much 
indulgence from the public for a work 
obscured with many faults, and might ven- 
ture, without great mistrust, to bring before 
it tlie Plays which I now offer, unaccompa- 
nied by any previous demand upon the atten- 
tion of my reader, which is generally an un- 
welcome thing, I must nevertheless beg for a 
few minutes to trespass upon his patience. — 
It lias been, and still is, my strongest desire 
to add a few pieces to the stock of what may 
be called our national or permanently acting 
plays, how unequal soever my Abilities may 
be to the object of my ambition.* I have, 
therefore, in the " Series of Plays," though 
pursuing a particular plan, endeavoured fuUy 
to delineate the character of the chief person 
of each drama, independently of his being the 
subject of a particular passion ; so that we 
might have an idea of what kind of a man he 
would have been had no circumstances ever 
arisen to bring that passion violently, into ac- 
tion. 1 have endeavoured also distinctly to 
discriminate the inferior characters, because 
they, not being allowed to exhibit violent 
passion, lest they should too much interfere 
with the principal object, had more need of 
such distinct discrimination to prevent them 
from being altogether insignificant, and to 
prevfent each play from becoming a mere pic- 
ture of passion which might be tedious and 
heavy to an audience accustomed to variety of 
character and incident. This I have done, 
hov>f unskilfully soever I may have done it, 
with a hope, which I will not yet abandon, 
that some of the dramas belonging to that 
work may hereafter be thoug-lit worthy of be- 
ing admitted into that class of plays to which 
I am so desirous of adding something. How- 
ever, I am sensible that were those plays more 
successful than I dare flatter myself to expect, 
they all require too much power of expression 
and delicacy of discrimination in the actor 
who represents the principal character — the 
whole depends too nmch on the exertion of 
one individual, and such a one too as can 
very rarely be found, ever to become plays that 
will commonly be brought upon the stage.! 

* See the introduction to the ' Series of Plays.' 

t Let it not be supposed fromthe a bove that I 
have the slifrhtcst intention of discontinuing the 
' Series of Pfays.' So far from it, I hope that the 
work will go on better For the being occasonally 
l)roke in vipon by pieces of a different kind; nnd 
thougli I admit they are not altogetlier well fit- 
ted for the stage, as it is commonly circumstan- 
ced, I still think plays upon that plan are capable 
of being made upon the stage more interesting 
than any other species of drama. 



Convinced of tliis, as well as wishing some- 
times to vary my employment, I have 
long since proposed to myself not to confine 
my pen entirely to one task, but to write from 
time to time, as inclination might lead me, or 
circumstances suggest, an unconnected or 
(may I so call it.'') a free, independent play, 
that might have a chance of pleasing upon a 
stage, circumstanced as stages generally are, 
with no particular advantages. I have wish- 
ed to leave behind me in the world a few 
plays, some of which might have a chance of 
continuing to be acted even in our canvass 
theatres and barns ; and of preserving to my 
name some remembrance with those who 
are lovers of that species of amusement which 
I have above every other enjoyed. 

I am well aware, however, that having suc- 
ceeded in one species of writing gives us no 
sure grounds to presume that we shall be 
equally fortunate in any other ; no, not even 
in that which most nearly approaches to it. 
Not only the epic poet may write a bad trage- 
dy, but the sonnet writer ma}' find himself 
greatly at a loss in composing a few tender 
couplets for nnisic. I have seldom seen any 
piece, not appearing to me to possess great 
merit (for such things I have seen,) succeed 
upon the stage, without feeling inclined to 
say to myself, " don't despise this : very 
probably in attempting, even ujxin no higher 
grounds, such success as the present, and liv- 
ing to it also the whole bent of your thoughts, 
you would find yourself miserably disappoint- 
ed." I ofier to the public, therefore, a work 
of a kind so nearly related to that in which I 
have already had some degree of supcess and 
encouragement, with almost iiie diffidence of 
an entirely inexperienced writer. 

To publish a volume of miscellaneous plays, 
I am very sensible, is making a large demand 
upon the attention of my readers, and expos- 
ing the plays themselves likewise to the dan- 
ger of being read in a way that will diminish 
their effect, and in eveiy way prove a great 
disadvantage to them. People are in the hab- 
it of reading but one new play at a time, 
which by this means makes a fiill undivided 
impression upon the mind ; and though we 
are not obliged to read all the plays of a vol- 
ume, one following another, so that they nmst 
crowd, and jostle, and tread upon one an- 
other's heels"; yet who, with a new work in 
his hands, if he be at all pleased with it, will 
shut up tlie book after the first portion of it is 
over, and wait till he has properly digested 
what he has got before he proceed with the 
remainder .' I ain inchned to believe that 
each of the plays in the series has at first suf- 



TO THE READER, 



239 



fered considerably from being read in this 
manner ; but in pieces connected with one 
another this mode of pubUcation is in some 
degree necessary, at least there is in it more 
propriety. So much am I convinced of this 
that it was at one time my intention to publish 
these pla3's separately, and it is with some dif- 
ficulty that I have been prevailed upon to 
give up this intention. May I then beg of ray 
reader to pardon, in the first place, so great a 
demand upon his attention by offering at once 
a volume of plays to his perusal ; in the next 
place, to have the goodness not to read it has- 
tily, but to pause, some days at least, between 
each play, that they may have in this respect 
the same advantages which new plays gener-- 
ally have. Let him not smile : this last is a 
request whicli I earnestly make, and if it is 
not complied with, 1 shall almost be tempted 
to think myself hardly treated.* 

I must also mention, that each of the plays 
.contained in this volume has been, at one 
time or other, offered for representation to one 
or other of our winter theatres, and been re- 
jected. This my reader will readily believe 
is not done in the spirit of vanity ; and I beg 
of him also to believe, tliat neither is it at all 
done in that of complaint. 1 merely mention 
it, because otherwise it must have appeared 
absurd to introduce from the press what has 
been expressly written to come before the pub- 
lic in a different manner, without making any 
attempt to present it in its own peculiar 
mode. I must, in this case, have either ap- 
peared pusillanimously timid in shrinking 
from that open trial to which my contempo- 
raries submit, or sullenly and ungraciously 
fastidious. 

The chief thing to be regretted in this fail- 
ure of my attempts is, that having no oppor- 
tunity of seeing any of my pieces exhibited, 
many faults respecting stage effect and gen- 
eral impression will to me remain undiscov- 
ered, and those I may hereafter write be of 
course unimproved. Another disadvantage, 
perhaps, may present itself to the mind of my 
reader ; viz. that not having the trial of their 

*It may be urged, indeed, that unconnected po- 
ems bound up together, and almost every other 
species of composition, must suffer for being read 
in hasty succession in the same way. And so in 
some degree they do. But in reading descrip- 
tions of nature, successions of thoughts, and nar- 
ratives of every kind, the ideas they represent to 
the mind are as troops drawn out before it in 
loose marshalled array, whose most animated 
movements it surveys still as a spectator ; whilst 
in reading a drama, where every character speaks 
immediately in his own person, we by sympathy 
rush, as it were, ourselves into the battle, and 
fight under every man's coat of mail by turns. 
This is an exercise of the mind so close and vig- 
orous, that we retire from it e.^hausted ; and if 
curiosity should urge us on without sufficient 
rest to the next engagement that calls for us, we 
enter the field bewildered, and spiritless, and 
weak. 



merits immediately in prospect, I may be- 
come careless or forgetful of those requisites 
in the drama tliat peculiarly refer to the stage. 
But if I know any thing at all of my own 
character, this will not be the case. I shall 
persevere in my task, circumstanced as I am, 
with as anxious unremitting an attention to 
every thing that regards the theatre as if I 
were there forthwiUi to receive the full re- 
ward o'f ail my labors, or complete and irre- 
trievable condemnation. So strong is my at- 
tacliment to the drama of my native country, 
at the head of which stands one v/hom every 
British heart thinks of with pride, that a dis- 
tant and uncertain hope of having even but a 
very few of the pieces I offer to the public 
represented to it with approbation, when some 
partiality for them as plays that have been 
frequently read shall have put it into the pow- 
er of future managers to bring them upon the 
stage v/jtli less risk of loss than would be at 
present incurred, is sufficient to animate me 
to every exertion tliat I am capable of mak- 

But I perceive a smile rising upon the check 
of my reader at the sanguine calculations of 
human vanity, and in his place I should most 
probably smile too. Let that smile, howev- 
er, be tempered with respect, when it is con- 
sidered how much mankind is indebted to 
this pleasing but deceitful principle in our na- 
ture. It is necessary that we should have 
some flattery to carry us on with what is ar- 
duous and uncertain, and who will give it to 
us in a manner so kindly and applicable to 
our necessities as even we our own selves ? 
How poor and stationary must the affairs of 
men have remained, had every one, at the 
beginning of a new undertaking, considered 
the probability of its success with the cool, 
temperate mind of his reasonable, unconcern- 
ed neighbour .-' 

It is now time to say something of the par- 
ticular plays liere offered to the public. 

In the first I have attempted, in the char- 
acter of Rayner, to exhibit a young man of an 
easy, amiable temper, with delicacy of senti- 
ment and a well principled mind, tempted, 
in the extremity of distress, to join with un- 
worthy men in the proposed commission of a 
detestable deed ; and afterwards, under one 
of t!ie severest trials that human fortitude can 
be called upon to endure, bearing himself up, 
not with tlie proud and lofty firmness of a 
hero, but with the struggles of a man, who, 
conscious of the weakness of nature within 
him, feels diffident of himseL" t ■ the last, and 
modestly aims at no more than what, being a 
soldier and the son of a brave father, he con- 
siders as respectable and becoming. One 
who aspires not to admiration but shrinks 
from contempt ; and who being naturally 
brave in the field, and of a light buoyant dis- 
position, bears up throughout with an anima- 
tion and cheerfulness by no means inconsist- 
ent with a considerable degree of tlie dread 
of death, when called upon to encounter it 



240 



TO THE READER. 



wilh tl(>lil)i'ratinn and certainty. To liim 1 
have opposed the character of a young man 
in whom, though witJi some good afiections, 
there is a foundation of natural depravity 
greatly strengthened by the bad education he 
Jias received from an absurdly indulgent 
mother, brought by his crimes to an untmejy 
end, and meeting it with a very different 
spirit. 

Of the ciiaracters of tlie two principal wo- 
men in this j)iece, opposed to two women of a 
very different description I shall say nothing. 
The second and inferior persons of the drama 
I have endeavoured to delineate with suffi- 
cient discrimination to make us feel acquaint- 
ed with them, though much force or origin- 
ahty is a praise which I readily grant they 
are not entitled to. 

1 am afraid the varied conduct of the whole, 
sometimes gay and even ludicrous, sometimes 
tender or distressing, but scarcely at any time 
solemn or dignified, will be displeasing to 
those who are accustomed to admire tragedy 
in its more exalted form. I flatter myself, 
however, that as I have not, for the sake of 
variety, introduced any under-plot nor patch- 
ed scenes unconnected with the iiiain busi- 
ness, bui have endeavoured to make every 
thing arise naturally from the circumstances 
of the story, I shall not on this score be very 
much censured. * 

This play was written many years ago, 
when I was not very old, and still younger 
from my ignorance of every thing regarding 
literature than from my years. This, how- 
ever, I do not mention as any apology for its 
defects. A work that cannot be read with 
approbation unless the mind is continually 
referring to the particular circumstances un- 
der which it was written, ought not to be 
brought before the public, but (when those 
circumstances are very extraordinary) as a 
literary curiosity. Reading over this work, 
after it had been laid by for such a length of 
time tiiat it was to' me almost like the work 
of a stranger, I thought there was sufficient 
matter in it, with some alterations, to make 
an interesting play, not unsuited to the com- 
mon circumstances of even our country the- 
atres ; and indeed I have altered it so con- 
siderably that full one half of it may be said 
to be newly written. In the original it was 
uniformly written in blank verse, and in ma- 

* That part of the scene, Act III. in tlie court 
of the prison, where the songs of the confined 
chief of banditti and a slight sketch of liis char- 
acter are introduced, though very appropriate 
to the place, stands loose from the business of 
the play, and may therefore be considered as su- 
perfluous and contradictiniT what I have s;iid a- 
bove. But as it is short, and is a fancy come 
into my head from licarincf stories in my child- 
hood of Rob Roy, our Robin Hood of Scotland, 
1 cannot find in my heart to blot it out, thouu-h 
either on the stage or in the closet, any body is 
welcome to do it for me by passing it over en- 
tirely. 



ny of the scenes, particularly those approach- 
mg to comic, my reader will readily believe 
it was sufiiciently rugged and hobbling ; I 
have, therefore, taken the liberty of writing 
in plain prose all those parts where I thought 
blank verse would be cumbersome and stilted. 
The only scenes in the play that remain ex- 
actly or nearly as they stood in tlie original 
are, that between Rayner and the Old Man 
of the wood, in which 1 have scarcely altered 
a single , word, and that, Act iv. Scene iii. 
between Waterloo and his mother. 

A play, with the scene laid in Germany, 
and opening with a noisy meeting of mid- 
night robbers over their wine, will, I believe, 
suggest to my readers certain sources from 
which he will suppose my ideas must have 
certainly been taken. Will he give me per- 
fect credit when I assure him, at the time this 
play was written, I had not only never read 
any German plays, but was even ignorant 
that such things as German plays of any rep- 
utation existed .'' I hope — I am almost bold 
enough to say, I know that he will. And 
that 1 may not abuse liis faith by smuggling 
any thing under its protection not strictly en- 
titled to it, I must inform him that the short 
scene between Rayner and his servant Her- 
man which I thought in some degree neces- 
sary to shew the character and temper of the 
master, and to interest us in his favour before 
the great action of the piece begins, was en- 
tirely introduced in my latter alterations, and 
is therefore liable to whatever charge of imi- 
tation it may seem to deserve, though I have 
not been sensible, in writing it, of having any 
particular class of authors in my mind. 

Of the comedy that follows it I shall say 
but little. To those who are chiefly accus- 
tomed, in works of this kind, to admire quick 
turns of thought, pointed expression, witty 
repartee, and the ludicrous display of the 
transient passing follies and fashions of the 
world, this play will have but few attractions. 
The representation of a few characters, not, 
I believe, " over-stepping the modesty of na- 
ture," who are connected together in a very 
simple plot, carried on throughout with cheer- 
fulness, unmixed with any pretensions to 
great refinement of sentiment, or delicate 
strokes of tenderness, is all this piece has to 
boast of: and with no higher pretensions, 
the greater proportion of my readers will not, 
I flatter myself, find fault with me for having 
made it a kind of division or stepping-stone 
between the two tragedies ; where, if tliey do 
not enjoy a brilliant sunshine, they may at 
least have a little flickering of the sunbeams 
to play upon them as they pass from one som- 
bre gloom to another. It lias lain by me for 
many years, and has received a very few in-v 
considerable alterations. 

The last play of this volume was written in 
the hope of being brought out upon our larg- 
est theatre, enriched as it then was by two 
actors whose noble appearance and strong pow- 
ers of expression seemed to me peculiarly 



TO THE READER. 



241 



suited to its two principal characters. The 
subject of it is taken from Gibbon's account 
of the siege of Constantinople b}' the Turks. 
It was a subject that pressed itself upon me, 
at a time when I had no thoughts of writing 
at all, and, (if I may use the expression) 
2couJd be written upon. The character there 
displayed of Constantino Paleologus, the last 
of the CaBsars, a modest, affectionate, domes- 
tic man ; nursed in a luxurious court in habits 
of indulgence and indolence ; without ambi- 
tion; even without hope, rousing himself up 
on the approach of unavoidable ruin, and de- 
serted by every Christian prince in Europe, 
deserted by his own worthless and enervated 
subjects, supported alone by a generous band, 
chiefly of strangers, devoting themselves to 
him from generous attachment ; — to see him 
thus circumstanced, nobly fronting the storm, 
and perishing as became the last of a long line 
of kings, the last of the Romans ; — this was a 
view of man — of noble and dignified exer- 
tion which it was impossible for me to resist, 
thougii well aware that no play I am capable 
of writing can ever be equal to what sucli a 
subject deserves. So much was I pleased 
with those generous ties — may I be permitted 
to make use of a scripture phrase, and say, 
those ' cords of a man .■"" binding together the 
noble Paleologus and his brave imperial band, 
that, had 1 followed my own inclination, de- 
lineating those would have been the principal 
object of the piece. But convinced that some- 
thing more was requisite to interest a common 
audience, and give sufficient variety to the 
scenes, I introduced the character of Valeria, 
and brought forward the domestic qualities of 
Constantine as well as those of the unfortu- 
nate prince and beloved leader. 

Mahomet and Justiniani are the only char- 
acters in the piece, Constantine excepted, 
that are not imaginary. The first will be 
found, I hope, to correspond with the charac- 
ter given of him by the historian. To alter, 
for the idle convenience of poetry, conspicu- 
ous, or indeed any characters that have been 
known in the world, appears to me Iiighly 
blameablc, though in filling up an outline 
given us by history we cannot well avoid 
jieightening or diminishing the general eltect. 
Justiniani, if 1 well remember, (for 1 have not 
the history by me at present to refer to,) v/as 
a noble Genoese, who, after a life distinguished 
for military honour, disgraced himself bj- be- 
ing the first to turn his back wlien the Turks 
attacked the breach on the day of the last 
general assault, and was the immediate cause 
of the city being taken. He is said afterwards 
on this account to have died of a broken 
heart. I have endeavored to represent him 
as a proud man with a high sense of honour, 
rather than natively brave, and therefore 
particularly punctilious in every thing that 
concerns the reputation of a soldier. To him 
I have ventured to oppose a military charac- 
ter of a very different description, in the com- 
mander of the Genoese ves.sels which sn gal- 
30 



lantly forced their way into the port of Con- 
stantinople during the siege ; and if I have 
dwelt too much on the rough generous gal- 
lantry of a brave seaman, and given too many 
allusions throughout the whole to the dan- 
gers and vicissitudes of a sea-faring life, my 
country, which has owed so much to brave 
men of this class, will stand forth in my de- 
fence, and say, that a Briton upon this sub- 
ject writes proudly, and therefore is tempted 
to write profusely. In the other imaginary 
characters, particularly that of Othus, 1 have 
endeavored to accord with the circumstances 
of the times; for it is to be remembered, that 
slothful and corrupted as the inhabitants of 
Constantinople then were, amongst them 
were still to be found the chief remains of 
ancient literature and refinement*. 

Perhaps in the conduct of this tragedy, I have 
sometimes weakened the interest of it, by at- 
tending too much to magnificence and show. 
But it was intended for a large theatre, where 
a play is rather looked at than listened to and 
where, indeed, by a great proportion of the 
audience, it cannot be heard : and though I 
might now very easily remove that show, yet 
to place in its stead what it has most probably 
kept back, would be almost impossible. For 
that which has probably been prevented by 
it, should have been woven and incorporated 
into the original texture of the piece, and 
cannot afterwards be inserted here and there 
in streaks and patches. It has also, I am 
inclined to believe, received some injury from 
my having had, when I sketched my two 
chief characters, the actors who I intended 
should represent them, too much in my 
thoughts. This is a fault, and 1 am sensible 
it is so : but those who have seen and ad- 
mired the great powers of those actors in the 
highest line of tragedy, will easily admit that I 
have not sinned without a strong temptation. 
I hope also tliat this, standing alone, as a sin- 
gle offence of the kind, amongst a considera- 
ble number of plays which, if I live long 
enough, my present task will probably in- 
crease to, may be forgiven. 

I am sensible there is not that strength 
and compactness of plot, that close connec- 
tion of events producing one another in this 
play, which is a great perfection in every 
dramatic work, and which I am sorry to say 
is a perfection that is not to be found in any 
work of mine that I have hitherto published. 
However, I flatter myself I have in this in- 
s'!,ance a good excuse to make. It appears to 
me that, in taking the subject of a poem or 
play from real story, we are not warranted, 
even by the prerogatives of hardship, to assign 
imaginarv causes to great public events. We 



* The character of Othoric, or rather the cir- 
cumstance of his death, I have taken from an ac- 
count I have read somewhere, I believe in one 
of Dr. Moore's Novels, of a highland sergeant, 
who saved himself by a similar stratagem from 
the torments prepared for hirn by the American 
Indians. 



TO THE READER. 



mny accompany those events with imaginary 
characters and circumstances of no great im- 
portance, thai alter them no more in the mind 
of the reader than the garniture with which a 
painter decorates the barrenness of some well- 
known rock or mountain, that serves for a 
landmark to the inhabitants of the surround- 
ing country. He may clothe its rugged sides 
with brushwood, and hang a few storm-stunt- 
ed oaks on its bare peaks ; he may throw a 
thin covering of mist On some untoward line 
of its acclivity and bring into stronger light 
the bold storied towerings of its pillared cliffs ; 
he mny even stretch the rainbow of heaven 
over its gigantic head, but its large and gen- 
eral form must remain unaltered. To have 
made a romantic passion for Valeria the cause 
of Mahomet's besieging the city, would, I be- 



lieve, have pleased the generality of readers' 
and have made this play appear to them more 
hke what a play ought to be ; but I must then 
have done what I consider as wrong. 

It would be impertinent to proceed farther 
in pointing out the merit, if it has any, or de- 
merit of this tragedy, of which I cannot pre- 
tend to be a very clear-sighted or impartial 
judge. I leave it, with its companions, to my 
reader, who will, I doubt not, peruse them all 
with reasonable indulgence, and more than 
this it would be foolish even to desire. If I 
find that, upon the whole, these plays have 
given more pleasure to the public than the 
reverse, I shall not less cheerfully bring for- 
ward, at some future time, those which re- 
main behind, because their faults shall have 
been fully exposed to the censure they deserve.. 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN: 
Rayner. 

Count Zaterloo, a worthless dissipated no- 
Meman of ruined fortune, and chief 
of a band of lawless ruined men, like 
himself. 

Bernard, ) Gentlemen and folloicers of 

Sebastian, 3 Zaterloo. 

Hardibrand, an old general. 

Mardonio, a monk. 

Old man of the Wood. 

Ohio, a negro attached to the prison. 

Herman, servant to Rayner. 

Richard. 

Bertram. 

GOBAS. 

Keeper of the Prison, Clown, Executioners, 
Turnkey, Jailor, Messenger , Landlord, 
Confessor, Croicd, &,'C. 
WOMEN : 

Elizabeth. 

Countess Zaterloo, mother to Zaterloo. 

Mira, a courtezan. 

A.i.ic'E, friend to Mira. 



SCENE,- 



- Germany, near the frontiers of Po- 
land and Silesia. 



ACT I. 

Scene I — a noise of voices and unru- 
ly MERRIMENT IS HEARD, WHILST 
THE CURTAIN DRAWS UP, AND DISCOV- 
ERS COUNT ZATERLOO, BERNARD, SE- 
BASTIAN, AND OTHERS OF THEIR BAND 
SEATED ROUND A TABLE WITH WINE,&C. 

Count Z. Ha I ha ! ha .' ha ! with all this 
noisy mirth, 
Should some grave stranger, on his way mis- 
led, 
Now push the door a-jar, and look upon us 
Thus set, what class of men should we be 

deem'd ^ 
A set of light hearts, snug in fortune's lap, 
Who will not go to bed because we may .' 
Or club of sharpers, flush'd with full sucess, 
New from the spoiling of some simple fool .'' 
Or troop of strolling players, at our ease. 
After the labours of our kingly sorrows. 
With throats new cool'd at as great charge of 

wine 

As our tough lungs have cost of lady's tears .'' 

Ber. No, no, thou hast not hit upon it yet : 

He'd take thee for the heir of some old miser. 

Treating thy friends, as first fruits of thy 

kingdom, 



With flowing bumpers to the quiet rest 
Of thy good kinsman's soul. 

Count Z. Yes, Bernard, thou say'st well : 

and thy dark visage, 
Lank and unsuited to all mirth, would mark 

thee 
The undertaker, who amongst the guests 
Had come on matters of his sable trade, 
Grinning a strange, uncomely, jaw-bone smile 
O'er the near prospect of his future gains. 
Seb. Methinks, at least, in this gay, jolly 

band. 
He scarcely would discover needy men, 
Who belter days have seen. 

Count Z. Tut, man ! thou art too grave ; 

thou art too grave — 
Which of you sung that song with merry 

lay, 
Some few nights since.'' Come, let us have it 

now. 

SONG. 

Ye who fain would happy be, 
Give the hand, and join with me : 
They who toil the weary day, 
They who bend with locks of grey, 
They who tread the beaten way, 
Fools who work ihat we may play, 
Fold their weary arms to sleep. 
Come, let us our vigil keep. 

Fellows, join, and never fear; 
Ye who would be happy, hear. 
With the sober and the meek, 
Lighter flies the passing week '.' 
In his dwelling warm and sleek, 
Brighter smiles the rich man's cheek? 
Wiser things may wise men say, 
But we are wiser far than they. 

Come, light spirits, light and free, 

Wiser they who foolish be. 

He who hammers at the pot, 

He who brews for every sot, 

He who made my hose and coat. 

Is a better man I wot ; 

Yet were we form'd, events declare, 

He to work, and I to wear. 

Blistress of the misty shroud, 

O, lovely moon ! come from thy cloud. 

When thou o'erlook'st the ocean's brine, 

Ourselves we view in floods of wine. 

Our constancy resembles thine; 

Like thee in borrow'd robes we shine ; 

Then let us, in thy kindred light, 

Still wake, the rulers of the night. 

Count Z. It is a song of Halbert's, is it not.-' 
He was a social jolly-hearted mate, 
And had a knack of making ready rhymes. 

Ber. I knew him well : what has become 
of him ? 



244 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



Count Z. (pretending not to hear.) Fill up 

your glass, and let the flask go round. 

Ber. What has become of Halbert, dost 

thou know .' 
Count Z. (still jjrttending not to hear.) This 

wine is richly flavour'd, is it not.' 
Ber. It is. — But Halbert; know ye aught 

of him .' 
Count Z- The devil take thy question, ask- 
ing spirit I 
For when thou getst a notion by the skirt. 
Thou, like an English bull-dog, keep'st thy 

hold, 
And wilt not let it go. — 

He shot liiuisclf in prison some months since : 
Now, there's thine answer for thee ; art thou 
satisfied .' 
(A deep and long pause; then Zaterloo 
.'Starts up as if he recollected, soviething.) 
He will be with us ere I've pav'd his way. 
Seh. Hast thou some new associate to pro- 
pose .'' 
Count Z. Know ye the younger branch of 
Valvo's house ? 
Whose valiant fatJier let\ him but his sword 
And his proud spirit, thro' this changeful 

world 
To shape his way, with heart as truly tem- 
pered 
To all the softest witch'ries of refinement 
As e're own'd cherish'dheir of wide domains, 
in palace nurs'd. 

Seb. I've seen him when a youth. 
But he since then has of a foreign state 
The soldier been; and liad not now returned, 
But in the hope, 'tis said, of being heir 
To his great uncle's vast and rich possessions, 
Of which that villain Hubert has depriv'd 

him 
With treach'rous wiles. Poor heart 1 he has 

my pity. 
'Tis said a ling'ring fever seiz'd upon him 
From disappointment ; and I marvel not ; 
The stroke was most severe. 

Count Z. And lelt more keenly. 
For that he left behind him, in the country 
To which he now belongs, a gentle maid 
And his betroth'd, with whom he thought to 

share 
His promis'd wealth. 

But these things rest. — Thus driven as we are 
To this uncertain, daring course of life. 
The stronger and the more respectable 
Our band, tlie greater chance of |jrospering. 
Our number is too small ; and, by my soul, 
To see a mean, plebeian, vulgar knave. 
Admitted of our fellowship, still rubs 
Against my nature. Such a man as Rayner 
Is precious, and, once gain'd, is sure and 

steadfast. 
But few days since I met him, dark and 

thoughtful, 
With melancholy and unwonted gait 
Slow saunt'ring thro' lone unfrequented paths 
Like one wliDse soui from man's observing eye 
Slirinks gall'd, aa shrinks the member newly 
torn 



From every slightest touch. Seeing him 

thus, 
I mark'd him for my man. 
Ber. Did'st thou accost him .'' 
Count Z. Yes ; when to my greeting, 
" Thou see'st 1 am unhappy, go thy ways," 
He fretful said, and turn'd. 1 still persisted, 
With soothing words which thrill'd against 

his heart, 
(For in our youthful days we once were 

play-mates,) 
Like the sweet tones of some forgotten song, 
Till, like a pent-up flood swoln to the height, 
He pour'd his griefs into my breast with tears. 
Such as the manliest men in their cross'd 

lives 
Are sometimes forc'd to shed. 
Seb. And spoke he of his love .' 
Count Z. Nay, there indeed 
He was reserv'd ; but that part of his story, 
Which I from sure authority have learnt, 
I still thro' broken words could shrewdly 

read, 
AUho' he nam'd it not. 

Ber. Hast thou explain'd to him our course 

of life .' 
Count Z. No, that had been too much : but 
can'st thou doubt, 
Suffering such wrongs as Hubert's artful base- 
ness 
Has put upon him, he will scruple long. 
Thus circumstanc'd, to join his arm with ours 
In murd'ring the rich villain .■' . 

Ber. {looking at Sebastian, wAo shrinks 

hack.) 
I pray thee call it shooting ! that plain 
word 
Still makes Sebastian, like a squeamish dame. 
Shrink and look lily-fac'd. To shoot a man 
As one in battle shoots a fronted foe ; 
As from the tavern's broil, in ineasur'd field. 
One shoots a friend, is nought : — but that 

word murder — 
It hath a horrid sound ; pray thee, good cap- 
tain. 
Remember 'lis a band of gentle men 
Thou dost command, and let such gentle 

phrase 
Fall from thy tongue as gentle ears may suit. 
{Omnes laughing loud at Sebastian.) 
Count Z. Husii ! Rayner is at hand, I hear 
his steps. 

Enter Rayner. 

I give you welcome, Rayner, with my heart : 
These are my friends, oiwhom I well might 

boast. 
But that it seems like boasting of myself. 
Here, take your place, and join our fellow- 
ship. 
There is but little need of ceremony 
With those whom like misfortunes bring to- 
gether. 
Raij. I take my seat, honour'd in such a 
place ; 
And so far to misfortune am indebted. 
Which has procur'd it forme. (Sits down.) 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



246 



Ber. {drinking to Rayner.) This do I fill to 
future fellowship : 
To that which makes, at fortune's lowest 

ebb, 
A ?evf brave men united, mock the world 
And all its good boy rules ; enabling them 
Boldly to seize their portion of life's feast. 
Which griping av'rice or unjust oppression 
Would from them snatch, whilst with insult- 
ing scorn 
It mocks tiieir poverty and patient want. 
Ray. Thou truly say'st ; at least I have ob- 
serv'd 
That those who bear misfortunes over meekly 
Do but persuade mankind that they and want 
Are all too fitly match'd to be disjoin'd, 
And so to it they leave them. 

Ber. 'Tis ever so : 

Even good men then neglect them ; but the 

base. 
They, who bj- mean and undermining arts 
To o'ergrown wealth attain, like the ass's 

heel 
'Gainst the sick lion's low and lanken breast 
Spurn at them. 

Count Z. Yes, good Bernard, thou speak'st 
truly. 
For I myself, who, as thou know'st right well. 
Am not too meekly to misfortune bent. 
Have somewhat of the vi'orthless ass's kick 
Against my bosom felt. — 'Lone andunarm'd, 
Had but one brave companion by my side 
My anger shard, full dearly had the knave — 
But let it pass — he had a brave man's curse. 
And that will rest upon him. 

Ber. But, pray thee. Count, tell us the cir- 
cumstance: 
Tliou speak'st in mystery. 

Count Z. A few days since, returning near 
my home. 
Upon a narrow path rais'd from a road 
With mud choak'd up, behind me trampling 

came 
A band of liv'ried rascals at hi^ heels. 
In all his awkward state, a pufF'd-up world- 
ling, 
And rode me off my way; whilst looking 

back, 
He turned his head with a malicious grin 
At the poor spatter'd wretch, who in the mud 
Stood showering curses on him. 

Ray. Ay, 'tis the cursed insolence of 
wealtli 
That makes the poor man poor. Thou wert 
unarm'd .' 
Count Z. I was ; or by this hand, poor as I 
am, 
1 should have spent a brace of bullets on him 
With much good- will. 

Ray. Know'st thou the villain's name .' 
Count Z. Faith, I'm almost asham'd to tell 
it thee. 
Thou know'st him well : he is a rich man 

now ; 
His name is Hubert. 
Ray. There lives no blacker villain on tlie 
earth 



Than him who bears it. — But thou know'st 

it all. 
When from a distant country, where with 

honour 
I earn'd a soldier's pittance, the fair prom- 
ises 
Of a near kinsman tempted me, and I, 
Tho' by my nature most incautious. 
And little skill'd to gain by fiatt'ring arts 
An old man's love, high in his favour stood ; 
That villain Hubert rous'd his jealous na- 
ture 
With artful tales of flights and heir-like wish- 
es. 
And side-long mock'ry of his feebleness. 
Till, in the bitterness of changed love. 
All his vast wealth he did bequeath to him. 
And left me here, ev'n in this stranger's 

land, 
(For years of absence makes it so to me,) 
A disappointed, friendless, unknown man, 
Poor and depressed, such as 5'ou see me now. 
Ber. Double, detested, cruel-hearted vil- 
lain ! 
Count Z. (starting up roith affected vehe- 
viencc.) By heaven, he dies, as. I do wear this 

arm ! (tlieij ail start vp.) 

Defended by a host of liv'ried knaves, 
I'd seek him out alone. 

Ber. Thou shalt not go alone; here, heart 
and hand 
We will all join thee in so good a cause. 
First Gent. My arm is at thy will. 
Second Gent. Take my aid too ; 

We never can be bold in better cause. 

Third Gent, {on receiving a sign from Za- 
terloo.) Then, Sirs, you must be speedy with 

your vengeance. 
For I am well inform'd that on to-morrow. 
With all his treasure, for a distant province 
He will begin his journey towards eve. 

Count Z. Ha ! then good fortune leads him 
to our hands ; 
How goes he guarded .'' 

Third Gent. With a slender train. 
Count Z. Then thanks to fortune's fav'ring 
smiles, which thus, 
Whilst we but seek revenge for a friend's 

wrongs, 
So kindly throws into our heedless way 
The easy cure of our necessities. 
Yes, let us seize the greedy glutted villain ! 
Let us disgorge him of his ill-got gains ! 
He long 'enough has rioted in ease. 
Whilst better men have felt the gripe of 
want. 
Ber. Yes, let it be so, let the villain die ! 
Count Z. What say'st thou, Rayner .'' thou 

alone art silent. 
Ray. The wrongs are mine, and if with in- 
dignation 
They fill your breasts, in strong desire of 

vengeance. 
Ye well may guess I am not far beliind : 
But there's a law above all human bonds. 
Which damps the eager beating of my iiearl. 
And says, " do thou no murder." 



24G 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



Count Z. Well, clear thy knitted brows, 

nor look thus strangely. 
We both are t'orm'd, my friend, to know like 

■feelings, 
Like wants and wishes, and from better days 
Both are reduced to fortune's lowest ebb : 
And 1 as well as tiiou, standing thus singly, 
Can feed my fancy up with strong conceits 
Of what in letter'd lore is virtue term'd ; 
And bear its darkest frowns. There was a 

time, 
When sharing ev'ry wish and ev'ry view 
With one of weaker frame and softer soul ; 
Yet forced by the dark frowns of adverse 

fortune 
To live a willing outlavi' from her presence. 
Because 1 could not bear to come before her 
A poor despised man, reft of that comeliness 
And honest grace which independence gives. 
To bid her tlirow aside her flowing robes 
And decent ornaments of maiden pride, 
Unveil the sweetness of her shelter'd beauty 
To beating mid-day heats and chilling winds, 
And be a wand'ring vagrant by my side ; — 
There was a time, my friend, when, tluis be- 
set, . 
At view of any means to better fortune, 
A stronger pow'r had ris'n within my breast 
And mock'd at law. But, standing thus 

alone, 
I can as well as thou forego the gain 
Which this occasion offers. — Let it pass I 
There is within us, be it superstition, 
Th' unscann'd opinions from our childhood 

cherish'd, 
Or natural instinct, still a strong aversion 
To ev'ry act of blood. Let us yield to it, 
We will not strain our nature from its bent : 
We'll do no violent deed. 

Ray. {catching hold vf Zaterloo icith great 
agitation.) O thou hast mov'd me I thou hast 

conjur'd thought ! 
Wert thou — Wert thou indeed thus circum- 

stanc'd .'' 
And thy deserted love ; what was her fate .' 
Count Z. She felt not long the cruel sepa- 
ration : 
One lovely bush of the pale virgin thorn, 
Bent o'er a little heap of lowly turf, 
Is all the sad memorial of her worth ; 
All that remains to mark where she is laid. 
Ray. Oh ! Oh ! and was it thus .' 
Count Z. But let us now shake off these 

dismal thoughts ; 
This hour was meant for social fellowship : 
Resume your seats, my friends, and, gentle 

Rayncr, 
Clear up thy cloudy brows and take thy place. 
Rny. I fain would be excus'd. 
Count Z. (gently forcing him to sit down.) 

Nay, no excuse : 
Thou must perforce a social hour or two 
Spend with us. To ye all, my noble friends, 
I fill this cup. (drinks.) 

Bernard, how goes thy suit ? 

Hast thou yet to thy greedy Lawyer's pocket 
Convey 'd thy hindmost ducat? Ha, ha, ha ! 



Had he, with arms in hand, ta'en from thee 

boldly 
Half of the sum, thou would'st have call'd him 

robber. 
Ha, ha, ha ! {laughing heartily.) 
Bcr. Yes, thou may'st laugh : 
We nice distinctions make. — I had an uncle, 

Who once upon a time 

Count Z. I hope, good Bernard, 
Thy story will be shorter than thy suit. 
(Rayner, icho has been sitting in gloomy 
thoughtful.ness, without attending to any 
thing around him, ichilst Zaterloo has 
been keeping an eye of observation on him, 
now rises up in great agitation to go 
away.) 

Count Z. What is the matter, Rayner ? 
Ray. I am disturb'd — I know not how I 
am — 
Let me take leave, I pray you. 

Count Z. Thou shalt not quit us thus. What 

is the matter .'' 
Ray. Question me not : my thoughts are all 
confus'd : 
There is a strong temptation fasten'd on me. 
I am not well. 

Cotmt Z. (aside to Bernard.) |Ay, now it 
works upon him : 

This will do 

(Moud and preventing KsLjner from going.) 
If ihou'rt unwell, art thou not with thy friends f 
Ray. If ye indeed are friends, not spirits 
enleagu'd 
To force me to my ruin, let me go — 
Let me go to my home. 

Count Z. What, dost thou call a bare unfur- 
nish'd chamber, 
With griping Landlord clam'ring in tiiine 

ears 
For what he knows thou canst not give, thy 
home .' 
Ray. {sighing deeply.) I have no other. 
Count Z. Stay thou here with us: 
In the next chg^ber thou shalt rest a while. 
Lead him, my kind Sebastian, by the hand: 
There is a sort of woman's kindliness 
About thy nature which befits thee best 
To be a sick man's friend. I'll follow you. 
[Exit Rayner, leaning on Sebastian, turn- 
ing about to his friends triumphantly as they 
gooff. 
I have secur'd my man. 

(ji voice heard without.) 
But hark! a voice without! It is my mother's. 
Secure the lattic'd door. Plague on her kind- 
ness 
To haunt me here ! I have forgot my promise. 
(To Bernard.) Make fast the lattic'd door and 

answer for me. 
Bernard (after fastening a door of lattice work 
through ichich the Countess is seen.) 
Who's there .' what want ye .' 

Countess Z. {without.) I want my son : 

I pray you is he here ? 
Ber. He is not here. 

Countess Z,. (without.) Nay, say not so, 1 
think he is with you. 



RAYNER ; A TRAGEDY 



247 



tell him I have sat these three long hours, 
Counting the weary beatings of the clock, 
Which slowly portion'd out the promis'd time 
That brought him not to bless me with his 

sight. 
If he is well, why does he thus forget? 
And if he is not, as I fear he is not, 
Tell me the worst, and let me be with him, 
To smooth his couch and raise his sickly head. 
Count Z. {aside to Bernard.^ Tell her it is 

unseemly for a mother 
To run about like a new foolish wife. 

Ber. If you complain thus movingly, fair 

widow, 
We shall believe you seek a second husband 
In lieu of your good son; and by my truth 
It were a better errand. 

Countess Z. O base of thought, as most 

unblest of speech ! 
My son is not with you : it cannot be : 

1 did him wrong to seek him in such compa- 

ny. 
Bernard (speaking loud after her as she retires 

from (he door.) 
Not far from hence, there is a nightly meeting 
Of worthy, sober, well-dispos'd folks. 
Who once a week do offer up their prayers 
And chant most saintly hymns till morning 

dawn : 
It is more likely you will find him there. 

(Ornnes laughing.) 
Count Z. She's gone. 

Ber. Yes, yes ; come from thy hiding- 
place. 
Count Z. Now what a most unreasonable 
woman ! 
Thinks she , thus ripen'd to these manly years, 
That I must run whene'er my finger aches 
To lean my silly head upon her lap .-' 
'Tia well I have no wife. 

Ber. Ay, so it is. 
There is no pleasing those high legal dames, 
With endless claims upon a man's regard : 
Heaven save us from them all ! 

Count Z. Well, this I drink to precious 
liberty : 
He is a fool indeed who parts with that. 

{A loud voice and hustling heard icithout.) 
What's this comes next to plague us ? 
Ber. 'Tis Mira's voice. 
Count Z. Hast thou not sent to say, that 
urgent bus'ness 
Detains me from her banquet ? 

Ber. I have ; I sent to her a written mes- 
sage. 
Count Z. Keep fast the door, and I will 
stand conceal'd. 
(Conceals himself, and Mira appears thro' the 
latticed door.) 
Mira (without.) Where is Count Zaterloo.'' 

Let me pass on. 
Ber. Affairs of greatest consequence de- 
tain him, 
iVIy beauteous Mira ; and I needs must say 

That now you may not pass. 

He's much concern'd : early upon the morrow 
He will be with you. 



Mira. Upon the morrow ! prate not thus to 
me ! 
He shall to-night go with nie where I list, 
Or never see my face again. To-morrow ! 
Open the door, 1 say ! this weakly barrier 
Shall not oppose my way. 

(Beating ttiolently against the door.) 
Count Z. (aside to Bernard.) Faith I believe 
we must e'en let her in : 
She may do some rash thing, if we persist. 
(Bernard unbolts the door: Zaterloo cumcsfrom 
his concealment; and enter Mira, superbly 
dress' d, and in a violent passion.) 
Mira. Is this the way you keep your prom- 
ises .'' 
Is this your faith ? is this your gallantry .'' 
Count Z. Mira, my gentle love, I pray thee 
hear me I 
I sent to tell thee bus'ness of great moment. 
Mira. Yes, yea ! I have receiv'd your scur- 
v)' message. 
And well I know that ev'ry paltry matter 
Is cause sufficient for neglecting me. 

Count Z. Thou know'st to be from thee is 

painful to me. 
Mira. So it should seem, by taking so much 
care 
To comfort ye the while. 

(pointing to the wine, &,'C.) 
You do your bus'ness jovially, methinks. 
Count Z. Thou art too warm : accuse me aa 
thou wilt 
Of aught but want of love. 

Mira. O thou deceitful man ! I know thee 
well : 
Thou talk'st of love, and thou wouldst break 
my heart. 
Count Z. Indeed I am to blame, my gentle 
love; 
Yet be not thus ; in token of forgiveness 
This friendly cup receive, and smiie upon no. 
(Offering her a cup, ichich she duslu.<: to ike 
grdund. ) 

Mira. Off with thy hateful gifts ! nought 
from thy hands 
Will I receive ; I scorn thy offering. 
Ev'n the rich robe thou hast so oflen promis'd 

me ; 
Ay and so oft forgot, so I must call it, 
I would now scorn, since thou dost slight my 
love. 
Count Z. Indeed, my Mira, thou shalt 
have that robe 
Before two days be past, I swear to thee. 
Tlien do not look so frowningly, my love; 
I know thou hast a soft relenting nature ; 
Smile my forgiveness. 

Mira. Othou provoking man ! thou know'st 
full well 
It is thyself and not thy gifls I prize : 
Thou know'st too well how my fond doaling 

heart 
Is moved with the sofl witch'ry of thy tongue ; 
Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my 

heart. 
Oh ! 'tis too much ! (pretending to burst into 
tears.) 



248 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Count Z. I cannot sec thee weep : what 

would 'st thou have ? 
Mira. I will have nought, unless you go with 

mc. 
Count Z. I cannot now, for 1 have urgent 

bus'nesa. 
Mira. Then staj, and Sever see my face 

again. 

that soino friendly hand would end my 

days, 
Since I have lived to see me thus despis'd. 
Count Z. {aside to Bernard.) Bernard, I 

think I must e'en go with her. 
See thou to Rayner : I will soon return. 
{Moud.) Then let us go, my love, thou dost 

compel me. 
Thy hand, sweet Mira. (Exeunt Zaterloo 

(ind, Mira. 
Ber. Well, gentle friends, it is blest liberty 
Our noble chief enjoys. 1 must to Rayner. 
Stay if you will, and keep ye merry here. 
{Omncs.) No, we are tir'd, we will retire to 

rest. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — rayner's lodgings. 

Enter Rayner alone. 

Raij. Be still, ye idle thoughts that toss me 
thus, 
Changing like restless waves, but ever dark ; 
Or one of you above his fellows rise, 
And bear a steady rule. Adversity ! 
Tho'st come upon me like an ambush'd foe 
In armed strength. If I had mark'd thy 
course, 

1 might have girt myself for thine approach. 
While distant still, and met thee like a man. 
But when new-fetter'd in a lover's bonds, 
And dazzled too with hope's deceitful bright- 
ness, 

Cam'st thou like a thick cloud of desartsand. 
And in dark night o'erwhelm'd me : deepest 

niglit, 
Thro' which no v.faking vision ever gteams. 
Save thy grim visage only, loathly want, 
In all thy varied forms of misery. 
My night, my day dreams, ah I how are ye 

changed. 
Since in the new-betroth'd, the lover's fancy. 
Ye ■ wove your sheeny maze of mingled 

thoughts. 
Like sparkling dew-webs in the early Sun ! 
{after a pause.) 
Elizabetli ! metliinks ev'n now I see her. 
As in the horrors of my last night's dream. 
When, after following her thro' tlood and fire, 
She turn'd to me, and her weak arms stretch'd 

forth. 
But ah ! how changed, how pale, and spciit, 

and keen ! 
As if already blighting poverty. 
That portion which her love must share with 

me. 
Had marr'd — cease, cease, base thought, it 

shall not be ! 
(Enter Herman with a knapsack on his back, 
as if prepared for a journey.) 



What, my good Herman, art thou so soon 
ready .' 
Her. Yes, my dear master, but if you think 
it too soon, I will not go to-day. Nay, if it 
were not that you force me to go, I should as 
soon have thought of deserting my friend, 
(pardon my boldness, sir,) in a wild wood 
amongst savages, as leaving you here in this 
strange place in the state you are in at pres- 
ent. Pardon my boldness, sir. 

Rtnj. Thou hast no boldness to pardon, 
Herman : thou art well entitled to call thy- 
self my friend; there is not one amongst 
those who have borne that name, who would 
have done more for me than thou hast done. 
Her. Ah sir ! 

Ray. {assuming a look of cheerfulness.) Fy, 
do not look so sadly upon me, man; thanks 
to thy good nursing and the good broth thou 
hast made me, 1 am getting strong again : 
and as for the state of my coti'ers, for v;hich 
thou so much concernest thyself, do not let 
that disturb thee. My tide of means is, ^ be 
sure, pretty well ebb'd just now; hut some 
wind or other will spring up to set it a flow- 
ing again. In the mean time thou knowest 
I would travel alone : perhaps I may ramble 
about a little while mysteriously, like the 
wandering Jew, or some of those lonely phi- 
losophers which thy old stories tell thee about, 
and there is no knowing what 1 may find out 
to do me good. The philosopher's stone, thou 
knowest, may as well fall into mj' hands as 
those of any other wanderer ; so pray thee, 
man, don't look so ruefully upon me. 

Her. Ah, my dear master! there is some- 
thing here that hangs heavy on my heart, 
and says, if I leave you now, some evil will 
befal you ; I beseech you let me stay with you: 
I shall find something to do in this town, 

and I can 

Ray. No, no, no ! Speak of this no more 

— we have argued this point already. And 

what is this which thou puttest down so slyly 

upon the table .'' {taking up a little packet 

which Herman has put secretly upon the table.) 

i Ha! the jewels I have given thee in room of 

I thy wages ! out upon it I tiiou wilt make me 

angry with thee now, and it grieves me to be 

I angry with thee. Put it up, put it up : I com- 

■ mand thee to do it ; and thou knowest 1 have 

I not often used this stern word. 

i Her. O no, sir I You have not indeed used 

I it ; and I shall never meet with another mas- 

I ter like you. 

! Ray. Thou wilt meet, I hope, my dear 
I Herman, with a far better master than I have 
i been to thee, though not with one for whom 
I thou wilt do so much kindly service as thou 
hast done for me ; and for this cause, perhaps, 
I thou wilt not love him so much. God pros- 
! per thee for it, wherever thou goest I — Take 
this embrace and blessing for all thou hast 
1 done for me. Farewell ! farewell ! thou must 
1 be gone now ; mdeed thou must. God bless 
j thee, my good Herman. 
I {Pushing Herman gcTilly ofj^ the stage, who 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



249 



wipes his eyes and seems unwilling to go.) 

[Exit Herman. 
Ray. (alone.) Now am I left alone : there's 
no one near me 

That e'er hath loved or cared for me. Me- 
thinks 

I now can better look i'th' surly face 

Mine alter'd state, and bare to be in want. 

I am alone, and I am glad of it. 

Alas! chang'd heart of mine ! what is that 
state 

Which gives to thee such thoughts ? — Eliza- 
beth— 

At it again ! This strong idea still ! 

I am distracted when I think of this, 

Therefore 1 must not, if I would be honest. 

Those jnen — or are they men, or are they dev- 
" ils .' 

With whom I met last night; they've fast- 
en'd on me 

Fell ttoughts, which, tho' I spurn them, 
haunt me still. 

Wduld I had never met them ! 

Here comes my landlord with his surly face 

Of debts and claims, and ev'ry irksome thing. 

(Enter Landlord with a letter.) 

Oood morrow, Landlord. 

Land. I thank you, sir ; I am glad to hear 
you call me Landlord, for I began to be 
afraid you had mistaken me for your Host. 

Ray. 1 understand you well enough, and 
indeed I have proved your patience, or rather 
your impatience, much longer than I wished. 
You have a letter in your hand. 

Land, (giving it.) There, sir; if it bring 
you the news of any good luck, I shall be 
glad of it. 

Ray. (agitated.) From Elizabeth. — Good 
mornmg — good morning to you 

Land. Read it, sir, and see if it bring you 
any good news ; it is time now to look for 
some change in your favour. 

Ray. I cannot open it whilst thou art here. 
Have the goodness at least not to stand so 
near me. 

Land. So I must not occupy a place in my 
own house, forsooth, for fear of offending the 
good folks who do me the honour to live in it. 
(retires to the bottom of the stage muttering to 
himself.) 

Ray. (after opening the letter with great 

emotion and reading it.) O what is this 1 

Abandon'd by the friend with whom she liv'd, 
And coming here to join me with all speed ! 
.O God I O God ! (sinks down upon a chair in 
violent agitation.) 

Land, (running vp to him.) What is the 
matter now .' 

Ray. Begone, begone ! I cannot answer 
thee. 

Enter Count Zaterloo. 

Count. Z. Ha, Rayner ! how is't with thee ? 

thou look'st wildly. 
(To Landlord.) Speak to me, friend : he 

heeds not what I say : 
31 



Has any new misfortune happen'd to him ? 
Land. I fear there has, sir. 
Count Z. Rouse thee up, brave Rayner, 
A friend is come to thee. 

Ray. (starting up.) Ha, is it thee ? 
Com'st thou upon me now, my tempter ? now, 
Ev'n in my very moment of distraction .'' 
Thou know'st thy time : some fiend has whis- 

per'd to thee. 
Ay, ay ! say what thou wilt. 

Count Z. Thou'rt surely mad; I came not, 
on my word. 
To say aught to thee which an honest ear 
Might not receive : nor will I even speak, 

Since it so moves thee 

Ray. (interrupting him, eagerly.) Ah, but 
thou must ! 
Thou must speak that, which, in its darkest 

hour, 
Push'd to extremity, 'midst ringing dizziness 
The ear of desperation doth receive. 
And I must listen to it. 

Count Z. What, say'st thou so .? 'Tis well 
(aside,) but be more prudent. 
We are o'erheard. (looking susjjiciously to 
Landlord, icho has retired a, jew imces behind.) 
Come with me to my lodgings ; 
There wait my friends ; all things shall be 

concerted : 
Come with me instantly ; the time is pre- 
cious. 
Ray. (in a tone of despair, clasping his 
hands vehemently.) Ay, ay .' I'll go 
with thee. 
[Exeunt Count Zaterloo and Rayner. 
Manet Landlord. 
Land, (coming for icard.) What's this I've 
overheard ? Is this devil now going to tempt 
the poor distressed young man to do some foul 
deed in his necessity .'' — I have tempted him 
too, with my hard-liearted umrmuring about 
the few wretched pounds that he owes me. 
I'll run after him and say, I don't care wheth- 
er he pay me or not. (running to the door 
and then stopping short.) No, no ! softly, soft- 
ly ! I dare say it is only some sharping busi- 
ness they have got on hand, such as needy 
Gentlemen are sometimes fcrced to follow : 
I have got my conscience newly cleared off 
at confession last week, and I am to make an 
offering next holy-day to the shrine of our 
patron St. Bernard; this is no time, goodsooth, 
to lose such a sum upon scruples. [Exit. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — a wood; dark night, with 

A PALE GLEAM OF DISTANT LIGHT- 
NliNG SEEN ONCE OR TWICE ON THE 
EDGE OF THE HORIZON. ADVANCING 
BY THE BOTTOM OP THE STAGE, A FEW 
MOVING LIGHTS, AS IP FROM LAN- 
THORNS, ARE SEEN, AND AT THE SAME 
TIME SEVERAL SIGNAL CALLS AND 



260 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



LOUD WHISTLES ARE HEARD, WITH THE 

DISTANT ANSWER RETURNED TO THEM 

FROM ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD. 



Enter Count Zatkrloo,Rayner, Sebastian, 
and others ot tlie band, armed, and a few of 
them bearing in their hands dark lanthorns. 
(It is particularly requested if this play should 
ever be acted, that no light may be permitted 
upon the stage but that which proceeds from 
the lanthorns only.) 

Count Z. {to Sebastian.) They must be 

near : didst thou not hear their call .'' 

5eJ. Methought I did ; but who in this wild 

wood 

May credit give to either eye or car .-■ 

How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own 

voices, 
From rocky precipice or hollow cave, 
'Midst the confused sound of rustling leaves, 
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly 

birds. 
Returning seeming answer ! 

Count. Z. Rayner, where standest thou.' 
Ray. Here, on thy letl. 
Count Z. Surely these wild scenes have 
depriv'd thy tongue 
Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good 

man, 
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous 

silent : 
Didst thou not also hear them .' 

Ray. I know not truly if 1 did. Around 
me, 
All seems like the dark mingled mimicry 
Of fev'rish sleep ; in which the half-doubting 

mind, 
Wilder'dand weary, with a deep-drawn breath. 
Says to itself, " Shall I not wake .'" 

Count Z. Fy, man ! 
Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up ? 
To-morrow's sun will be thy waking time. 
And thou wilt wake a rich man and a free. 
Ray. My waking time ! — no, no ! 1 must 
sleep on. 
And have no waking. 

Count Z. Ua.'. does thy mind misgive thee 

on the brink .' 
Ray. What passes in my mind, to thee is 
nothing, 
If my hand do the work that's faslen'd on me. 
Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt. 

And do not speak to me. 

Enter Bernard and others, armed, &.C. 
Count Z. Well met. my friends ! well met ! 
for we despair'd 
Of ever seeing you. 

Seb. Yet we have heard your voices many 
times, 
Now calling us on this side, now on that. 
As tho' you had from place to place still 

skipp'd. 
Like will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our way. 
Ber. We've far'd alike : so have we thought 

of you. 
Count Z. Have you discover'd aught of 
those we seek ? 



Ber. No ; all is still, as far as we have tra- 
vers'd ; 
No gleaming torch gives notice from afar, 
Nor tramplinc hoofs sound on the distant road. 
Count Z. fhen must we take again our 
sev'ral routs, 
That haply wo may learn, ere he approach, 
What strength we have to face , and how he 

travels : 
And that we may not wander thus again, 
This aged oak shall be our meeting place ; 
Where having join'd, we'll by a shorter com- 
pass 
Attack them near the centre of the wood. 
Seb. The night grows wond'rous dark: 
deep-swelling gusts 
And sultry stillness take the rule by turns ; 
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy 

clouds 
Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm. 
Count Z. I hope the devil will raise no 
tempest now. 
To save this child of his, and from his journey 
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes. 

Ber. Fear not ! 
For, be the tempest of the devil's raising. 
It will do thee no harm. To his good favour 
Thou hast (wrong not thy merit) claims too 
strong. 
Count Z. Then come on, friends, and I 
shall be your warrant ! 
Growl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye ; 
They are secure who have a friend at court. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene IL — a different part of the 

WOOD, WILD AND savage: THE SCENE 
STILL DARKEN'd, AND A STORM OF 
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING, ACCOMPA- 
NIED WITH HAIL. 

Enter Rayner. 
Ray. I know not where these men have 
shelter'd them. 
I've miss'd their signal: this loud stunning din 
Devours aU other sounds. Where shall Igo ? 
Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness, 
Swift shiv'ring hghtnings glare, from end to 

end 
MantUng the welkin o'er in wild flames ; 
Or from alofl, like sheeted cataracts 
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. Ev'n o'er my 

head 
The sofl and misty-textur'd clouds seem 
chang'd . 

To piles of harden'd rocks, which from their 

base. 
Like the up-breaking of a ruin'd world, 
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'rmg 
hail , 

Beats on my shrinkihg form with spitetul 

pith : 
V;here shall I shelter me ? Ha ! thro' the trees 
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light : 
I will make quickly towards it; perhaps 
There may be some lone dwelling in the 
wood. [Exit. 



RAYNEKi A TRAGEDY. 



251 



Scene III. — the inside of a cave: an 

OLD MAN DISCOVER'd SITTING BY A 

small table made of coarse planks 
with a lamp burning dimly upon 
it: the thunder heard still very 

LOUD. 

Old Man. Doth angry heav'n still roll its 
loudest peal 
O'er th' unblesthead ? Ay, thro' its deaf ning 

roar 
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice, 
And, as each furious turmoil spends its 

strength, 
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm 
Their distant growl. 
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up 
To lord it in the air. The very wind, 
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds. 
Like bursts of damn'd howlings from beneath. 
Is this a storm of nature's elements.' 
O, no, no, no ! the blood-avenging spirits 
Ride on the madding clouds : there is no 

place, 
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest 
The unblest head. {Knocking heardioithout.) 

Ha ! knocking at my door ! 

(Pauses and listens much alarmed : knocking 

heard still louder.) 
Say, who art thou thatknock'st so furiously ? 
Think'st thou the clouds are sparing of their 

din. 
That thou must thunder too .'' Say who thou 

art, 
And what thou would'st at such an hour as 

this. 
In such a place ? 

Rmj. {without.) I am a lone, and tempest- 
beaten traveller. 
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night. 
Old Man. Then art thou come where guest 

yet never enter'd. 
Ray. (without.) I do not ask admittance as 
a guest. 
Would'st thou not save a creature from de- 
struction, 
Ev'n a dumb animal? unbar the door. 
And let me lay my body under shelter. 
(Old man makes no answer ; the storm heard 
very loud.) 
Ray. (loithout.) If thou'rt a man in nature 
as in voice. 
Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof. 
And shut a stranger out to the rude night. 
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd 
thee. 
Old Man. He tries to move me with a sooth- 
ing voice. (Aside.) 
(Maud.) Thou art a knave: I will not let 
thee in. 
Ray. (without.) Belike I am, yet do not fear 
my wiles : 
All men are honest in a night like this. 

Old Man. Then I will let thee in : whoe'er 
thou art, 
Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack 
better things. 



(He unbars a small door, and Rayner enters 

much ruffled and exhausted by the. storm, and 

without his hut. 

Ray. I'm much beholden to thee. 

Old Man. No, thou art not. 

Ray. The violence of the night must plead 
my pardon. 
For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest. 
But wand'ring from my way, I know not 

how. 
And losing my companions on the road, 
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook 

me : 
When, spying thro' the trees this glimm'ring 

lamp, 
And judging it, as now it doth appear, 
The mid night taper of some holy man. 
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this 
Hold their abode, I ventur'd onwards. 

(Old Man, offering him bread and dried 
fruits.) 

Old Man. Perhaps thou'rt hungry. 

Ray. I thank you gratefully. 

Old Man. There is no need. 
Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it. 

Ray. I thank you trulj^, but I am not hun- 

Old Man. Perhaps tliou'rt dainty : I've 

naught else to give thee. 
Ray. I should despise myself, if any food 
Could bear such value in my estimation. 
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem, 
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare. 
Old Man. So much the better. (They sit 

down.) 
Ray. If I may guess from all I see around 
me, 
The luxuries and follies of the world 
Have long been banish d here. 
(Old Man looks sternly at Rayner, 2oho looks 
fixedly upon him again, and both remain for 
some time silent.) 
Old Man. Why look'st thou so ? 
What is there in my face that thou would'st 

scan .' 
I'm old and live alone : what would'st thou 
know .'' 
Ray. I crave your pardon, and repress all 
wishes 
That may disturb you. 

Old Man. The night wears on, let us both 

go to rest. 
Ray. 1 thank you, for in truth I'm very 

tir'd. 
Old Man. (pointing to his couch.) 
There is thy place. 

Ray. Nay, I am young; the ground shall 
be my couch. 
I will not take your bed. 
(Old Man then gives Ra.yner a cloak, which he 
scraps about /dm, laying himself doicn in a 
carrier of the cave. The storm now heard at 
a distance. After walking up and down for 
some time, the Old Man^oe* close xip to Ray- 
ner, rcho appears asleep, and looks earnestly 
upon him; Rayner opening his eyes seems 
surprised.) 



Wl 



RAYJNER : A TRAGEDy. 



Old Man. Be not afraid, I will not cut thy 

throat. 
Ray. (starting half vp from the ground.) 
Nay, Heaven such deed forfend ! 1 fear thee 

not : 
I can defend myself. (Grasping his sword.) 
Old Man. Be not offended ; but methought 
thy looks 
Did seem as tho' thou wert afraid of nie. 
Rest thou in peace — rest thou in peace, young 

man : 
I would not do thee harm for many worlds. 
(Rayner goes to rest again, still keeping his 
drawn sword in his hand. The Old Man 
goes to rest likewise, but shortly after starts 
from his couch in great agitation.) 
Old Man. It is mine hour of horror : 'tis 
upon me ! 
I hear th' approaching sound of feet un- 
earthly : 
I feel the pent-up vapour's chilly breath 
Buist Irom the yawning vault : — It is at hand. 
(Turning towards the door us if he saw some 

one enter.) 
Ha ! com'st thou still in white and sheeted 

weeds, 
With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side ' 
Thy grave is deep enough in liallow'd groundl 
Why com'st thou ever on my midniglit rest ? 
What dost thou want.' If tljouhast power, 

as seeming, 
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life ; — 

then iree 
From fleslily fears, in nature as thyself, 
I'll follow thee to hell, and tliere abide 
The searing flames : but here, upon this 

earth, 
Is placed between the living and the dead 
An awful mystery of separation, 
"Which makes their meeting frightful and 

unhallow'd. 
(In the vehemence of his agitation he throws 
out his arm and strikes it against Rayner, 
who alarmed at his ravings lias left his rest- 
ing-place and stolen sifthj behind him.) 
Ha 1 what art thou .' (starting and turning 
round to Rayner.) 
Ray. Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose 
knocking joints 
And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets. 
Who speak'st thus wildly to the vacant space. 
Say rather, what art tiiou. 

Old Man. I am a murderer. (Rayner starts 
hack from him and drops his s^nord.) 
Ah! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely 

ou me .' 
There's no blood on me now I 'tis long since 

past. 
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from 

me 
Thou dost in horror shrink .' 
Raij. Most miserable man ! 
Old Man. Tliou truly say'st, for I am most 

miserable. 
Ray. And what am I .'' (Jifter a disturbed 
pause.) 
The storm did rage and bellow thro' the air. 



And the red lightning shiver'd : 

No traveller would venture on his way 

In such a night. — O, blessed, blessed storm I 

For yet it hath not been, and shall be never. 

Most Great and Merciful ! sav'd from this 

gulf. 
May I to thee look up .' — No ; in the dust — 
(Jis he botes himself to the earth, and is about 
to kneel, the report of fire-arms is heard with- 
out, and he starts vp again.) 
'Tis done ! — O, it is done ! — the horrible act ' 
[Exit, beating his forehead violently . 
Old Man. What may this be .' some band 
of nightly robbers 
Is near my cave, committing violent deeds. 
Thy light, weak flame, shall not again betray 

me. 
And lure unwelcome visitors. (Puts out the 
lamp ; and after a dark pause, enter Count 
Zaterloo supporting himself on First Gen- 
tleman, tcho bears a dark lantern, which he 
sets down on the ground, and fastens the door 
of the cave carefully behind them. 
Count Z. I am wounded grievously : who 
would have thought 
Of such a powerful guard of armed men 
Attending on his journey. He is slain : 
Did'st thou not see him tali .•' 

First Gent. Yes ; we have kill'd our bird, 
but lost the eggs. 
Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've es- 

cap'd : 
Here we may rest ; this cave is tenanted 
WitJi some lone being whom we may con- 
troul. 

And take possession (discovering Old 

Man.) 

Something living here I 



What art thou : 

Old Man. I am a thing no better than your- 
selves. 
First Gent. The better then for thee that 

thou art so. 
Count Z. Conduct me onward: I perceive 
an opening 
Which leads, I guess, to some more close re- 
cess ; 
Lay me down there, for I am very faint. 
First Gent. I will obey thee. — Come thoa 
too, old man ; 
Not from my sight one moment must thou 

budge. 
Come on : for, mark me well, should'st thou 

betray us, 
Tho' fettcr'd down with chains in grated 

dungeons, 
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — .another part of the 

WOOD ; AT A DISTANCE, ON THE BACK 
GROUND, ARE DISCOVERED TWO MEN 
WATCHING A DEAD BODY BY THE LIGHT 
OF A TORCH STUCK BETWEEN THE 
BOUGHS OF A TREE ; THE STAGE OTH- 
ERWISE PERFECTLY DARK. 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



263 



Enter Gobas on the front of the stage. 
' Gobas. I fear they will all escape from us 
amongst these 'tangled paths and vile per- 
plexing thickets. A man cannot get on half 
a dozen paces here but some cursed clawing 
thing catches hold of him, and when he turns 
round to collar his enemy, with a good hear- 
ty curse in his mouth, it is nothing but a 
thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague up- 
on't ! I'll run no more after them, if they 
should never be taken. — Who's there .' 
Enter a Companion. 
Com. What, are you here, Gobas ? I 
thought you had been in search of the rob- 
bers. 

Gobas. So I was ; but what does it signify .' 
they have all got the start of us now, and we 
can scarcely expect they will have the civil- 
ity to wait till we come up with them. 

Com. Ay, ay, Gobas, that is a lazy man's 
argument. Why, there was one of them 
seen by Bertram not five minutes since with 
his head uncovered, stalking strangely among 
the trees like a madman, and he vows he 
will follow the scent through every path 
of the wood but he will have him, either a- 
live or dead. 

Gobas. But if he be a young stout robber, 
he may knock Bertram on the head in the 
mean time, and relieve him from the oblioa- 
tion of keeping his vow. 

Com. Never fear that : his bugle-horn is 
by his side, and as soon as he comes up 
with him he will give his companions notice, 
and they will run to his assistance. 

Gobas. Well, well, let them manage it the 
best way they can, and let us join our friends 
yonder, who keep watch by the body ; there 
IS good store of dried sticks in that corner ; 
we may make a fire and warm ourselves till 
they return. {Horn heard without.) 

Com. Ha ! there is the signal, and close at 
hand too. He has caught his man and wants 
assistance ; let us run to him, or the villain 
will escape. 

(Exeunt Companion and Gobas, who folloics 
rather unwiUingly, whilst the men who were 
loatching the body run eagerly to the front 
of the stage.) 

First Man. It sounded to the right hand of 
us ; let us strike into this path. {Horn sounds 
again.) 

Second Man. Ay, there it sounds again ; it 
is to this hand of us, but it is so dark there is 
no finding our way. 

First Man. We have been so long by the 
torch-light that the darkness is darker to us; 
run back and fetch the light with thee. 
{Several other attcrulants from different parts 
of the wood run across the stage, calling to 
one another loith great eagerness, whilst the 
Second Man running back again to the bot- 
tom of thestase, snatches the torch from the 
tree, and, comes forward with it. 
Enter Bertram, Gobas, and others, with Ray- 
NER as their prisoner.) 
Gobas. {speaking as then enter.) Here is 



light ! here is light, friends ! bring him near 
it, I pray you, that we may see what kind of 
a fish we have caught in oul- net. Ay, just 
as I said now, as hang'd a looking villain as 
ever scowl'd thro' the grates of a dungeon. — 
See what a wild murderous look he has with 
his eyes ! this is the very man that did the 
deed, I warrant ye. Let us pull the cords 
faster round his arms tho' : if he get one of 
his mischievous hands loose again, there is 
no knowing which of our brains he may 
knock out first. 

First Man. It will never be thine, 1 am 
sure, thou'rt always safe when the knocking 
out of brains is going on. 

Gobas. As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his 
hands loose if we do not take care of him. 
{Attempting to tighten the cords round Ray- 

ner's arms.) 

Ber. {putting him atcay with indignation.) 
For shame, man,, he is bound tight enough ; 
I will not suffer thee to lay a finger upon him : 
and as for the hang'd face thou talk'st of, a 
lack a day ! it goes to my heart to see him, 
such a goodly-looking gentleman, for such 
I'll be sworn he is. 

Gobas. Ay, no doubt ! it is ever thus with 
thee. Thou did'st never in thy life see a 
thief go to the gallows without crying out, 
" alack a day ! what a fine looking fellow it 
is !" Ay, and if he could but make shift to 
howl out half a verse of a psalm along with 
his father confessor, thou wert sure to notch 
him down upon thy holiday tables aa one of 
the UQW made saints. Ay, there be no such 
great saints nov/-a-days as those who pass, 
with the help of a Dominican, thro' the hang- 
man's hands to the other world ; he beats 
your pope and your cardinals all to nothing 
in smuggling a sinner cleverly in by the back 
door to heaven. 

Ber. So much the better for thee ; it is the 
only chance thou hast of ever getting there. 
Stand off, I say {pushing Gobas aivay,) and 
do not .stare thus upon the prisoner ! art thou 
not asham'd to stare in an unhappy man's 
face afler this fashion .■' we don't know what 
hard fate may have brought him into these 
circumstances, (to the attendants.) Move on ; 
we are losing time here. 

Gobas. What, will you not pinion him 
more closely .' 

Ber. No, beast ! I would rather -flea the 
skin off that fool's back of thine than gall a 
hair's breadth of his body, {in a softened voice 
to Rayner.j Speak, Sir, if the rope hurts 
your arms ; we will not use you cruelly. 

Ray. What did'st thou say to me .' was 
there kindness in thy voice .' 

Ber. Yes, Sir, there was kindness m it. — 
Do the ropes hurt your arms.^ if they do, we 
will loosen them a little. 

Ray. I wist not that my arms were bound : 
but if thou hast any kindness in thee, give 
me a drink of water when thou can'st get it, 
for my mouth is very parched. 

Ber. Yes, Sir, that you shall notv/ant, tho' 



254 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



I should pay gold for it. — Move on, com- 
rades : the night is far advanced, and we 
must guard the dead body of our master and 
the prisoner back to the city before the 
morning break. [Exeont 



ACT III. 

Scene. — a spacious court with a 
magmficent building in front a 
great concourse of people are 
discovered as if waiting in expec- 
tation of some sight. 

First Croicd. The court is marvellously 
long of breaking up; I'm tir'd of waiting ; 
and yet 1 don't like to lose the sight, after hav- 
ing stay'd so long for it. 

Second Croiod. I fear it will go hard with 
the young man. 

Third Croiod. I fear it will, poor gentleman! 

Woman Crowd. Ah ! poor young man I it 
is an awful end. 

Second Crated. Ay, 1 remember well 
the last criminal that was condemned here : a 
strong-built man he wns, tho' somewhat 
up in years. O, how pale lie look'd as they led 
him out from court ! I think I stood upon 
this very spot as he passed by me ; and the 
lixed strong look of his features too — It was 
a piteous sight ! 

Third Crowd. Ah, man ! but that was noth- 
ing to tiie execution. I paid half a dollar for 
a place near the scaffold ; and it would have 
made any body's heart drop blood to have 
seen him when he lifted up the handkerchief 
from his eyes, and took his last look of the 
day-light, and all the living creatures about 
him. 

Second Croiod. Ay, man, that a human crea- 
ture should be thus thrust out of the world 
by human creatures like himself; it is a pit- 
eous thing ! 

Enter a Man from the court. 

Om. (eagerly.) What news .' what news of 
the prisoner ? 

Man. He has just finished his defence, in 
virhich he has ac(juitted himself so nobly, set- 
ting off his words too with such a manly 
grace, that it is thought by every body he 
will be set free. 

Second Croiod. Indeed ! I should not have 
expected this now; spoke so nobly, say'st 
thou ? 

First Crowd. Yes, yes, noble blood makes 
noble speaking. 

Woman Croicd. Well, and is it not best so > 
poor young man ! I'm sure I'm glad of it. 

First Crowd. And an't I so too, milk-fac'd 
doll .'^ho' I hate to be kept so long staring for 
nothing. I wonder wliat brought me here, 
in a murrain to it ! 

Second Woman. La I then we shan't see 
him pass by with the chains upon his legs. 

First Croicd. No, no! nor nothinffatall. — 



Come let me pass, I have been too long 

here. {Pressing through the crowd to get out.) 

Woman Crowd. O, you tread upon my 
toes ! 

First Crowd. Devil take you and your 
toes both ! can't you keep them out of peo- 
ple's way then ! 

Woman Crowd. Plague take it I what had 
we all to do to come here like so many fools ! 
Enter a second Man from the court. 

Second Croiod. Here comes another man 
from the court (calling to the man). Ho, 
friend ! is he acquitted yet .' 

Second Man. No, nor like to be ; the judge 
is just about to pronounce sentence upon him, 
but something came so cold over my heart I 
could not stay to hear it. 
(Several of the mnh climb eagerly up upon the 

walls of the building, and look in at the 

windoics.) 

Crowd (beloio). What do you see there, 
sirs .' 

Croiod (above). The judge is just risen 
from his seat, and the black signal is lifted 
up. 

Omnes. Hush ! hush ! and let us listen. 
(A deep pause.) 

Crowd (above). Sentence is past now. 

Crowd (beloio) . God have mercy on him ! 

Third Crowd. I would not wear my head 
upon his shoulders for all the prince's coffers. 

First Crowd. Alas ! poor man ! he is but 
a youth. 

Second Crowd. Yet he must be cut off in- 
the flower of his days. 

First Croiod. It is an awful thing ! 

Woman Crowd. Ah ! but a youth, and a 
goodly-looking youth too, I warrant ye. 

Second Woman. Alack a-day ! many a one 
falls into crimes, but all do not pay the for- 
feit. 

Third Crowd. Ha ! who comes this way 
so fair and so gentle in her mein ; thus toss'd 
and 'tangled amidst the pressing crowd, like 
a stalk of wild flower in a bed of nettles .'' 
Come, clear the way there, and let the lady 
pass. 

Enter Elizabeth attended by Richard, the 
crowd making way for her. 

Eliz. I'm much obliged to you. 

Richard. We thank you, good Sirs ! My 
mistress and 1 are both strangers in this town, 
and the nearest way to your best inn, as we 
are told, is thro' this court ; but the crowd is 
so great I think we had better turn back 
again. 

Eliz. What is the meaning of this ea- 
ger multitude, so gather'd round the en- 
try to this palace .-* 

Third Crowd. It is no palace, madam, but 
a public court: there is a gentleman of noble 
birth who is just now condemned to death 
for murder, and we are waiting to see him 
led forth from his trial ; you had better stop 
a little while and see the sight too. 

Eliz. O, no ! I'm come here in an evil 



KAYNER t A TRAGEDY 



266 



hour!— A gentleman of noble birth— Alas! 
I)ut that the crime is murder 'twere most 
piteous. 

Omnes {eagerly). There he comes! see, 
see ! there he comes ! 

Enter Rayner, fettered and guarded from the 
court, followed by Bertram and others, and 
advances slowly towards the front of the 
stage, the crowd opening and making a lane 
for him on every side. 

First Crowd. What a noble gait he has 

even in his shackles I 
Second Croicd. Oh ! oh ! that such a man 

should come to this ! 
Eliz. (after gazing eagerly at the distant 

prisoner). 
Merciful Heaven ! the form has strong re- 
semblance. 
Richard. Sweet mistress, be not terrified 
with forms ; 
Tis but a distant form. 
Eliz. Ha ! then it strikes thee too !— Mer- 
ciful God ! 
Richard. Patience, dear madam ! now as 
he advances, 
We shall be certified of the deception. 
Rayner is not so tall as this young man, 

Nor of a make so slender ; no, nor yet 

Eliz. Peace, peace! for he advances. 
( Watching the prisoner as he advances with 
a countenance of distracted eagerness , till he 
comes near her ; then, uttering aloud shriek, 
falls down, and is supported by Richard and 
several of the croicd.) 

Officer {conducting Rayner). What fainting 
maid is this obstructs the way ? 
Let not the crowd so closely press around 

her. 
Open the way, and let the pris'ner pass. 
Rayner {upon the croicd opening and dis- 
covering Elizabeth). 
O, sight of misery ! my Elizabeth ! 
The last and fellest stroke of angry Heaven 
J' alls on this cursed head. 

Officer. What may this mean .-* let us pass 
on : we stop not 
Whate'er betide. 

Rayner. Nay, but you do : for here there 
is a power 
Stronger than law or judgment. Give me 

way : 
It IS permitted me by every sense 
Of human sympathy, were I ev'n bound 
With chams tenfold enlock'd. 

{Bending over Elizabeth.) 
Thou loveliest, and thou dearest ! O thou 

part 
Of my most inmost self! art thou thus 

stricken .' 
Falls this stroke on thee ? (Kneeling down 
and endeavouring to support her, hut finding 
himself prevented by his chain.) 
Is there not strength in the soul's agony 
To burst e'en bands of iron. {Trying furi- 
ously to'J)urst his fetters, but cannot ; then 
with a subdued voice) 



Am I indeed a base condemned wretch, 
Cut oflFfrom ev'ry claim and tie of nature ? 
{Turning to the officer ) 
Thou who dost wear the law's authority, 
May it not be permitted for the love 
Of piteous charity .'—Shall strangers' hands 
Whilst I am thus— O, do not let it be ! 

Officer. No, no ! move on : it cannot be 

permitted. 
Rayner {fiercely roused). What, say'st 
thou so ? {Turning to the crowd.) 
-Ye who surround me too. 



Each with the form and countenance of a 

man, 
Say ye 'tis not permitted .' 
To you I do stretch forth these fetter'd hands, 
And call you men : O, let me not miscall 
you ! 

{Voices from the crowd.) 
Fie, on't ! unbind his hands, unbind his 

hands. 
And we will stand his sureties. 
Bertarm {stepping forward in a supplicating 

posture to the officer.) 
Do but unbind his hands a little space, 
And shoot me thro' the head if he escape. 
My arm secured liim ; be my recompense 
This one request. 
Officer {to Bertram.^ 

Go to ; thou art a brave man but a weak 
one. 
(To the guard) Move on : we halt no longer. 
Crowd. By all good saints we stand by the 
brave Bertram, 
And he shall be unshackled. {Menacingly.) 
Officer. Soldiers, present your muskets to 
these madmen, 
And let them speak ; the pris'ner halts no 

longer : 
Move on. {Jl tumult betioeen the crowd and 
the guard, and Rayner is forced off the 
stacre by the soldiers.) 

First Crowd. Shame light on such hard- 
hearted cruelty ! 
Second Crowd. If there had been but six 
of us with arms in our hands he durst not 
have put this affront upon us. 

Third Crowd. But who looks to the lady ? 
She is amongst strangers, it seems, and has 
only this poor old man to take care of her. 

Omnes. We will take care of her then ; 
we will take care of her: ay, and she shall 
be waited upon like an empress. 

Second Crowd. Ay, so she shall, let the 
cost be what it will. I am only a poor cob- 
ler, God knows, yet I will pawn the last awl 
in my stall but she shall be wailed upon like 
an empress. See ! see ! she begins to re- 
vive again. 

Elizabeth {opening her eyes with a hiav-j 

sigh). 
Is it all vanish'd ? 'twas a dreadful vision ! 

{Looking on the croicd around her.) 
O, no ! the crowd is here still— it is real ; 
And he is led away — horrible ! horrible ! 
{Faints again, and is carried off the stage by 
Richard and the crowd.) 



256 



RAYNER; A TRAGEDY. 



Scene II. — a square court, surround- 
ed ON ALL SIDES BY THE GLOOMY 
WALLS OF A PRISON, THE WINDOWS OF 
WHICH ARE NARROW AND GRATED, 
AND THE HEADS OF ONE OR TWO OP 
THE PRISONERS SEEN LOOKING RUE- 
FULLY THROUGH THE GRATES. 

Enter Hardibrand, and looks round him for 
some time without speaking. 

Hard. Gloomy enough, gloomy enough 
in faith ! 
Ah ! what a wond'rous mass of dreary walls, 
Whose frowning sides are reft in narrow slips 
As I have seen full oft some sea-worn cliff, 
Pierc'd with the nmrky holes of savage birds. 
Ah ! here the birds within are dipt o' wing, 
And cannot fly away. 

Enter Ohio with a tankard in his hand, crossing 
the stage. 

Holla, my friend ! I pray thee not so fast ; 
Inform me, if thou canst, where I may find 
The keeper of the prison. 

Ohio. Know you what prince you speak 
to .^ saucy knave ! 
I'll have thee scorch'd and flead, and piece- 
meal torn. 
If thou dost call mo friend. 

Hard. Good words at least ; I meant thee 
no offence. 
I see thou hast a tankard in thy hand, 
And will not question thy high dignity. 
Softly ; here's money for thee. 

(Giving him money.) 
Ohio. Silver pieces ! 
He ! he ! he ! he I hast thou got more of them ? 
Har. Nay, thou art greedy ; answer first my 
question ; 
Tell me at which of all these gloomy doors 
I needs must knock to find out the chief jailor. 
Thou look'st like some fetch-carry to the 

prisoners ; 
Dost understand me .' 

Ohio. Ay, there's the place, go knock at 

yonder door. 
Har. (after knocking.) This door is close 

nail'd up, and cannot open. 
Ohio (grinning maiicio'iishj . and pointing to 
another door.) No, thou art wrong; 
it is the door hard by, 
With those black portals. 

(Hardibrand knocks at the other door.) 
Knock a little louder. 

Har. (after knocking some time.) A plague 

upon't ! there is no one within. 
Ohio (still grinning maliciovi^ly.) No, thou 
art wrong again, it is not there ; 
It is that door upon the other side. 

(Pointing to the opposite n-all.) 
Har. What, dost thou jest with me, mali- 
cious varlet ? 
I'll beat thee if thou tell'st me false again. 
Ohio. Negroes be very stupid, master friend. 

Enter the Kef.pkr of the Prison. 



Keeper (to Ohio.) Thou canker-worm ! thou 
black-envenom'd toad ! 
Art thou a playing thy malicious tricks .' 
Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go! 

[Exit Ohio. 
Hardibrand. Wiiat black thing is it .' it ap- 
pears, methinks, 
Not worth thine anger. 

Keeper. That man, may't please you, Sir, 

was born a prince. 
Hardibrand. I do not catch thy jest. 
Keeper. I do not jest, I speak in sober ear- 
nest ; 
He is an Afric prince of royal line. 

Hardibrand. What say'st thou ! that poor 
wretch who sneaketh yondtT 
Upon those two black shanks .' 

(Pointing off the stage.) 
Keeper. Yes, even he : 
When but a youth, stol'n from his noble pa- 
rents, 
He for a slave was sold, and many hardships 
By sea and land hath pass'd. 

Hardibrand. And now to be the base thing 
that he is ! 
Well, well, proceed. 

Keeper. At last a surly master brought him 
here. 
Who, thinking him unfit for further service, 
As then a fest'ring v/ound wore hard upon 

him, 
With but a scanty sum to bury him, 
Left him with me. He,ne'ertheless,recover'd ; 
And tho' full proud and sullen at the first, 
Tam'd by the love of wine, which strongly 

tempts him, . 
He by degrees forgot his princely pride, 
And has been long established in these walls 
To carry liquor for the prisoners. 
But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad ! — 
Hardibrand. Out on't ! thou'st told a tale 
that wrings my heart. 
Of royal lin^' ; b irn to command, and digni- 
fied 
By sufferings and dangers past, which makes 
The meanest man ennobled : yet behold him ; 
(Pointing off the stage.) 
How by the wall he sidelong straddles on 
With his base tankard ! — O, the sneaking 

varlet ! 
It makes mc weep to hear his piteous tale, 
Yet my blood boils to run and cudgel him. 
But let us on our way. 

Keeper. You are a noble stranger, as I guess, 
And wish to be conducted thro' the prison. 
It is an ancient building of great strength, 
And many strangers visit it. 

Hardibrand. It is indeed a place of ancient 
note. 
Have you at present man}^ criminals 
Within these walls ? 
Keeper. Our number is, thank God ! res- 
pectable. 
Though not what it has been in b?tter days. 
Hardibrand. In better days I — Well, do thou 
lead the way. 
(At they are nhout to go off the stage, they are 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY. 



257 



stopped by a voice singing from one of the 
highest windows.) 

SONG. 

Sweetly dawns the early day, 
Rise, my love, and come away: 
Leave thy grim and grated tower, 
Bounding walls, and step-dame's lower; 
'Don thy weeds and come with me, 
Light and happy are the free. 

No fair mansion hails me lord, 
I Dainties smoke not on my board ; 
Yet full careless by my side 
Shalt thou range the forest wide ; 
Tho' finer far the rich may be, 
Light and happy are the free. 

Har. AlaS; poor soul ! I would that thou 
wert free ! 
What weary thral] is this that sings so sweet- 

Keeper A restless, daring outlaw ; 
A fellow who hath aw'd the country round, 
And levied contributions like a king. 
To feast his jolly mates in wood and wild ; 
Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune, 
And as his freakish humors bit, hath lifted 
At one broad sweep the churl's sav'd store to 

leave it 
In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-worn 

palm 
Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow. 
Har. 'Tis a brave heart ! has he been long 

confined ? 
But list ! he sings again. 

SONG. 

Light on the hanging bough we'll swing, 

Or range the thicket cool , 

Or sit upon the bank and sing, 

Or bathe us in the pool. 

Har. Poor pent up wretch ! thy soul roves 
far from home. 

SONG. 

Well, good-man time, or blunt or keen, 
Move thee slow or take thy leisure, 
Longest day will bring its e'en, 
Weary lives but run a measure. 

Har. 'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt 
or keen, 
Thy measure has its stint. 

Enter Bertram from one of the doors of the 
prison. 

I think thou hast the air of an old soldier : 

{To Bertram as he is hurrying past him.) 
Such, without greeting, never pass me by. 
Ha, Bertram ! is it thee r 

Ber. What, mine old General .'' 
Har. Yes, and mine old soldier. 
How dost thou, man ? how has it far'd with 

thee 
Since thou hast left the service ? 
32 



Ber. I thank your honour ; much as others 
find it ; 
I have no cause to grumble at my lot. 

Har. 'Tis well, but what's the matter with 
thee now .'' 
Thine eyes are red with weeping, and thy 

face 
Looks ruefully. 

Ber. I've been to visit, here, a noble youth 
Who is condemn'd to die. 
Har. A noble youth ! 
Ber. Yea, a soldier too. 
Har. A soldier ! 

Ber. Ay, your honour, and the son 
Of a most gallant soldier. 
Har. But he is innocent .= 
Ber. He is condemn'd. 
Har. Shame on it ! were he twenty times 
condemn'd, 
He's innocent as are these silver'd locks. 

(Laying his hand veliementiy on his head.) 
What is his name .■■ 
Ber. Rayner. 

Har. Ha! son to my old comrade, Rayner ! 
Out on the fools ! I would as soon believe 
That this right hand of mine had pilferd gold, 
As Rayner's son had done a deed of shame. 
Come, lead me back with thee, for I must see 
him. 
Ber. Heav'n bless your honour I O, if by 
your means 
He might have grace ! 

Har. Come, let us go to him. 
Ber. Not now, an' please you : he is now 
engaged 
With one most dear to him. But an hour 

hence 
I will conduct you to his cell. 

Har. So be it. 
Mean time, stay thou with me, and tell me 

more 
Of this unhappy youth: I have a mind, 
With the good keeper's leave, to view the 
prison. [Exeunt. 

Enter Mir.\ and Alice by opposite sides, both 
muffled up in cloaks and their faces con- 
ceal'd. 

Mira {stopping Alice.J Nay, glide not past 
me thus with mufRed face : 
'Tis I, a visitor to these grim walls, 
On the same errand with thyself. How goes 

it 
With our enthralled colleague ? doth he prom- 
ise 
Silence to keep in that which touches us 
Of this transaction, for the which he's bound ? 
Jllice. He is but half persuaded ; go thyself 
And use thy arts — hush, here's a stranger 
near us. 

Enter a Man who gives a letter mysteriously to 
Mira, and, upon her making a sign to him, re- 
tires to the bottom of the stage whilst she 
reads it. 

What read'st thou there, I pray thee, that thy 

brows 
Knit thus ungraciously at ev'ry line .' 



258 



RAYNER: A TRAGEDY 



Mlra. Know'st thou that. I must doff my 
silken robes, 
Despoil my hair of its fair ornaments, 
And clothe me in a gown of palmer's grey, 
With clouted shoon and pilgrim's stafFin hand 
To bear me o'er rude glens and dreary wastes 
To share a stony couch and empty board, 
All for the proving of my right true love 
For one in great distress. Ha! ha I ha! ha! 
So doth this letter modestly request : 
I pray thee read it. 

Jl,ke {reading the letter.) " A deadly wound 
rankles in my side, and I have no skilful hand 
to dress it, and no kind friend to comfort me. 
I am laid upon the cold earth, and feel many 
wants I never knew before. If thou hast any 
love for me, and as thou hast often wish'd to 
prove that love, come to me q\iickly : but con- 
ceal thyself in the coarse weedsof a Pilgrina : 
my life is a forfeit to the law if any one should 
discover where I am. A friend in disguise 
will give into thy hands this letter, and con- 
duct thee to thy miserable Zalerloo." {return- 
ing ike letter.) And what say'st thou to 
this .? 

M'lra. I have in truth, upon my hands al- 
ready 
Troubles enough ; this is, thou know'st, no 

time 
To take upon me ruin'd men's distresses. 
Alice. Bat 'tis thyself hast brought this ru- 
in on him : 
'Twas thy extravagance. 

Mir a. Thou art a fool 1 

His life's a forfeit to the law : 'tis time. 
Good time, in faith, I should have done with 

him. 
Why dost thou bend these frowning looks on 

me.'' 
How many in my place would for the recom- 
pense 
Betray him to the officers of justice .'' 
But, I, thou know'st right well, detest all 

baseness. 
Therefore I will not. 

Alice. Hush, hush ! thou speak'st too loud : 
Some one approaches. 

Enter Countess Zaterloo. 

Countess Z. {to Mira.) I pray you, Madam, 
pardon this intrusion ; 
Tracing your steps, 1 have made bold to fol- 
low you. 
I am the mother of an only son, 
Who for these many days I have not seen : 
I know right well naught is conceal'd from 

you. 
Of what concerns him ; let me know, T pray 

you, 
Where I may find my child. 
Mira. Madam, you speak to one who in his 
secrets 
Has small concern. 

Countess Z. Nav, now, I pray you, do not 
keep it from me : 
I com? not with a parent's stern rebuke : 
Do tell me where he is, for love of grace : 



Or, if you will not, say if he is sick, 
Or if he is distress'd with any want. 
Do, for love's sake ! I have no child but him. 
Mira. {giving her the letter.) There, Mad- 
am ; this is all 1 know of him. 
'Twas yonder stranger gave it to my hand ; 
{Pointing to the man.) 
We need not interrupt you with our pres- 
ence; 
And so good day. [Exeunt Mira and Alice. 
Countess Z. {after reading the letter .) Alas, 
my son ! and art thou low and wounded.'' 
Stretch'd on the cold ground of thy hiding 

place 
In want and fear .'' Oh art thou come to this ! 
Thou who didst smile in thy fair op'ning 

morn. 
As cherubs smile who point the way to heav- 
en. 
And would'st thou have a stranger come to 

thee .? 
Alas ! alas ! where can thy aching head 
So softly rest as on a parent's lap ^ 
Yes, I will wrap me in the pilgrim's weeds, 
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my way, 
And tho' declinmg years impair my strength, 
These arms shall yet support thy feeble 

frame , 
When fairer friends desert thee. 
{To the Messenger, beckoning him to come for 

loard.) 
Good friend, this is no place to question thee ! 
Come with me to my home. [Exeunt. 



ACT. IV. 

Scene I. — the inside of the prison ; 

R.WNER AND ELIZABETH ARE DISCOV- 
RED SITTING SORROWFULLY BY ONE 
ANOTHER IN EARNEST DISCOURSE. 

Ray. Thou sayest well, my sweet Eliza- 
beth ; 
In this I have a,gainst thy love offended. 
But in the brightness of fair days, in all 
The careless gaiety of unruffled youth. 
Smiling like others of thy sex, I loved thee ; 
Nor knew that thou wert also form'd to 

stri ve 
With the braced firmness of unyielding virtue 
In the dark storms of life — alike to flourish 
In sunshine or in shade. — Alas ! alas ! 
It was the thoughts of seeing thee — but cease! 
The die is cast ; I'll speak of it no more : 
The gleam which shews to me thy wond'- 

rous excellence 
Glares also on the dark and lowering path 
That must our way divide. 

Eliz. O no ! as are our hearts, one is our 
way, 
And cannot be divided Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'erconieth all 

things. 
I will unto thee cling with strength so terrible, 
That human hands the hold will ne'er un- 
lock. 



RAYNER I A TRAGEDY 



269 



Ray. Alas, my love ! these are thy words 

of woe, 
And have no meaning but to speak thy woe : 
Dark fate hangs o'er us, and we needs must 

part. 
The strong affection that o'ercometh ail 

things. 
Shall fight for us indeed, and shall o'ercome : 
But in a better world the vantage lies 
Which it shall gain for us ; here, from this 

earth , 

We must take different roads and climb to it, 
As in some pitiless storm two 'nighted trav- 
ellers 
Lose on a wild'ring heath their 'tangled way, 
And meet again. 

Eliz. Ay, but thy way, thy way, my 

gentle Rayner — 
It is a terrible one. 
Oh flesh and blood shrinks from the horrid 

pass I 
Death comes to thee, not as he visiteth 
The sick man's bed, pillow'd with weeping 

friends : 
O no ! nor yet as on the battle's field 
He meets the blood-warm'd soldier in his 

mail. 
Greeting him proudly. — Thou must bend thy 

neck, 
This neck round which mine arms now cir- 
cled close 
Do feel the loving warmth of youthful life ; 
Thou must beneath the stroke — O horrid I 

horrid ! 
Raij. (supporting her from sinking to the 

ground.) My dear Elizabeth, my 

most belov'd ! 
Thou art affrighted with a horrid picture 
By thine own fancy trac'd ; look not upon it : 
All is not dreadful in the actual proof 
Which on th' approach frowns darkly. Rouse 

thy spirit ; 
And be not unto me at this dark push 
My heaviest let ; thou who sliould'st be my 

stay . ( She groans heavily.) 

What means that heavy groan ^ I'll speak 

its meaning. 
And say, that thou to nature's weakness hast 
The triijute paid, and now wilt rouse thyself 
To meet with noble firmness what perforce 
Must be ; and to a lorn and luckless man. 
Who holds in this wide world but thou alone, 
Prove a firm, gen'rous, and heart-buoyant 

mate, 
In the dark hour. Do I not speak it rightly.' 
Eliz. Thou dost, thou dost I if nature's 

weakness in me 
Would yield to the fieart's will. 

(Falling an his neck in a burst of soi-row.) 

Enter Father Mardonio. 
Mar. My children, ye have been in v/o- 

ful conference 
Too long : chide not my zeal that hither 

brings me 
To break upon it. On you both be shed 
Heav'n's pitying mercy ! 



Ray. Amen, good Father! thou dost call 
us children 
With a most piteous and kindly voice : 
Here is a daughter who in this bad world 
Will yet remain to want a father's care ; 
Thus let me form a tie which shall be sa- 
cred ; 
(Putting Elizabeth's^Aand into Mardonio's.) 
She has no parent. 

Enter Keeper of the Prison. 
What brings thee here .' we would be lefl in 
peace. 
Keeper (to Rayner.) I am by a right noble 
stranger urged. 
Who says he has in many a rough campaign 
Serv'd with your valiant father in the wars. 
To let him have admittance to your presence. 
Bertram conducts him hither. 

Ray. Serv'd with mine honour'd father ! 
and thus circumstanc'd. 
Now comes to see his son ! Well, be it so : 
This is no time for pride to wincli and rear, 
And turn its back upon the patt'ring hail, 
Bearing the thunder's shock. Let it e'en 

be: 
Admit him instantly. (Calling him back.) 
Nay, ere thou goest. 



What is he call'd ? 

Keeper. The Gen'ral Hardibrand. 

Ray. An honour'd name. [Exit Keeper. 
Retire, my love : (to Elizabeth. j 
1 cannot bear to have thy woes exposed 
Before a stranger's gaze. 
(Hhe retires with Mardonia to an obscure part 

of the Prison at the bottom of the Stage.) 

Enter Hardibrand and Bertram. 

Har. (to Bertram : stopping short as he 
enters, and gazing upon Rayner. who is 
turned avay from them and looking after 
Elizabeth.) 
It is the son of Rayner : in his form 
And face, tho' thus halfturn'd from us, I see 
His father. Still a soldier and a gentleman 
In ev'ry plight he seem'd. A clown or 

child 
Had sworn him such clad in a woollen rug. 

(Jldvancing to Rayner.) 
Young soldier, I did know your gallant fath- 
er ; 
Regard me not as an intruding stranger. 
Ray. I thank you, courteous sir : in other 
days 
Such greeting to my heart had been most 

welcome. 
A gallant father and condenmed son 
May in the letter'd registers of kindred 
Alhance have ; but in the mind's pure re- 
cord, 
They no relation bear : let your brave friend 
Still be to you as one who had no son. 

Har. No, boy ; that sentiment bespeaks 
thy blood. 
Heed not those fetter'd hands ; look in my 

face, 
Look in my face with the full confidence 



260 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Of a brave man; for such I'll swear thou 

art. 
Think 'st thou that I am come to visit thee 
In whining pity as a guilty man ? 
No, by the rood 1 if I had thought thee such, 
Being the son of him whose form thou wear- 

est, 
I should have curs'd thee. Thou by mis'ry 

prcss'd. 
Hast strongly tempted been ; I know thy 

story : 
Bertram has told it me : and spite of courts, 
And black-rob'd judges, laws, and learn'd 

decisions, 
I do believe it as I do my creed. 
Shame on them ! is all favour and respect 
For brave and noble blood forgotten quite :! 
Ray. Ah, do not fear ! they will remember 

that, 
And nail some sable trappings to my coffin. 
Har. I would that to their grave and pom- 
pous chairs 
Their asses' ears were nail'd ! Think they 

that men, 
Brave men, for thou thyself — What corps I 

pray thee 
Didst thou belong to in thy Prince's service.'' 
Ray. The first division of his fourth brig- 
ade 
Was that in which I serv 'd. 
Har. Thou hast companion been to no 

mean men. 
Those six brave officers of that division, 
Upon the fam'd redoubt, in his last siege, 
Who did in front o' th' en'my's fiercest fire 
Their dannv lodgement make, must needs of 

course 
Be known to thee. 

Ray. I knew them well ; five of them were 

my friends. 
Har. And not the sixth .' 
Ray. He was, alas ! my greatest enemy ; 
To him I owe these bonds. 
Har. A curse light on his head, brave tho' 

he be ! 
Ray. O curse him not, for woes enough al- 
ready 
Rest on his wretched head. 
(Bowing low and patting his hand on his head.) 
Har. Ha ! thou thyself, — thou wert thyself 

the sixth ! 
Thank heav'n for this ! Then let them if 

they will 
Upon a thousand scaffi:>lds take thy life, 
And spike thy head a thousand feet aloft; 
Still will I say thy father had a son. 

(Rushing into his arms.) 
Come to my soldier's heart, thou noble bird 
Of a brave nest ! — Must thou indeed be pluck'd 
And cast to kites .' By heav'n thou shalt not 

die! 
Shall such a man as ihou art from his post 
Be sham'd and push'd for one rash desp'rate 

act.-" 
It shall not be, my child ! it shall not be ! 
Ray. (smiling.) In faith, good Gen'ral, 

could your zeal prevent it, 



I am not yet so tir'd of this bad world, 
But I could well submit me to the change. 

Har. I'll with all speed unto the Governor, 
Nor be discourag'd, tho' he loudly prate 
That grace and pardon will but leave at lib- 
erty 
The perpetrators of such lawless deeds 
To do the like again, with such poor cant. 
(Elizabeth, loho has been behind backs, listen- 
ing eagerly to their conversation, and steal- 
ing % nearer to them by degrees in her ea- 
gerness to hear it, now rushes forward, and 
throios herself at Hardibrand's feet.) 
Eliz. We ask not liberty ; we ask but life. 
O grant us this, and keep us where they will, 
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet. 
O let them grant us life, and we will bless 

them ! 
Raxj. And would'st thou have me live, 

Elizabeth, 
Forlorn and sad, in loathly dungeon pent. 
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs, 
A poor, lost, caged thing ? 

Eiiz. Would not I live with thee .-' would 

not I cheer thee .' 
Would'st thou be lonely then ? would'st thou 

be sad .-' 
I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air, 
And make a little parlour of thy cell. 
With cheerful labour eke our little means, 
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in 
The news and passing stories of the day. 
I'd read thee books : I'd sit and sing to thee : 
And every thing would to our willing minds 
Some observation bring to cheer our hours. 
Yea, ev'n the varied voices of the wind 
O' winter nights would be a play to us. 
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Ray- 

ner ! 
How many suffer the extremes of pain, 
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight 
Few years to spend upon a weary couch, 
With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to 

mingle ! 
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with 

me .'' 
Ray. I could live with thee in a pitchy 

mine ; 
In the cleft crevice of a savage den, 
Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets 

roost. 
And cheerful light of day no entrance finds. 
But would'st thou have me live degraded 

also ; 
Humbled and low .■" No, liberty or naught 
Must be our boon, 

Har. And thou shalt have it too, my noble 

youth : 
Thou hast upon thy side a better advocate 
Than these grey hairs of mine. 

(To Elizabeth.) 
Bless that fair face ! it was not made for 

nothing. 
We'll have our boon ; such as befits us too. 
No, hang them if we stoop to halving it ! 

(Taking her eagerly by the hand.) 
Come with me quickly ; let us lose no time : 



RAYNER I A TRAGEDY. 



261 



Angel from heaven thou art, and with heav'ns 

power 
Thou'lt plead and wilt prevail. 

Ray. In truth thou wilt expose thyself, my 
love, 
And draw some new misfortune on thy head. 
(Endeavouring to draw her away from Har- 

dibrand.) 
Eliz. (to Hardibrand.) 
What new misfortune.'' can they kill thee 

twice .' 
We're tardy : O move quickly ! lose no time. 
Har. Yes, come, and Bertram here will 
guide our way : 
His heart is in the cause. 

Bert. Yes, heart and soul, my Gen'ral. 
Would my zeal 
Could now make some amends for what those 

hands 
Against him have unwittingly committed. 
O that the fellest pains had shrunk their 

nerves 
Ere I had seiz'd upon him ! 

Ray. Cease, good Bertram ! 
Cease to upbraid thyself. Thou didst thy 

duty 
Like a brave man, and thou art in my mind 
Not he who seiz'd but he whose gen'rous pity 
Did, in my fallen state, first shew me kind- 
ness. (Bertram kisses his hand.) 
Go, go I they wait for thee. 

Bert. They shall not wait. Would that we 
were return'd, 
Bearing good tidings I 

Har. O fear it not, my heart says that we 
shall. 
[Exeunt Elizabeth, Hardibrand and Bertram, 
Manent Ra^yner and Mardonio.] 
AJar. Hope oft, my son, unbraces the girt 
mind, 
And to the conflict turns it loosely forth, 
Weak and divided. I'm disturb'd for thee. 
Ray. 1 thank thee, Father, but the crime of 
blood 
Your governor hath ne'er yet pardon'd; there- 
fore 
Be not disturb'd for me; my hopes are small. 
Mar. So much the better. Now to pious 
thoughts 
We will direct — Who comes to interrupt us .' 
Enter Turnkey. 
Ray. It is the turnkey ; a poor man who, 
tho' 
His state in life favours not the kind growth 
Of soft affections, has shewn kindness to me. 
He wears upon his face the awkwardness 
And hesitating look of one who comes 
To ask some favour ; send him not away. 
(To Turnkey). What dost thou want, good 

friend .'' out with it, man ! 
We are not very stern. 

Turn. Please you, it has to me long been a 
priv'lege 
To shew the curious peasantry and boors, 
Who from the country flock o' holy days, 
Thro' his strait prison bars, the famous robber, 



That over-head is cell'd ; and now acompany 
Waits here without to see him, but he's sullen, 
And will not shew himself. If it might please 

you 
But for a moment opposite j'our grate 
To stand, without great wrong to any one, 
You might pass for him, and do me great kind- 
ness. 
Or the good Father there, if he be willing 
To doff" his cowl and turn him to the light, 
He hath a good thick beard, and a stern eye. 
That would be better still. 

Ray. (laughing.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! what say 

ye to it, Father .-" 

(Laughing again more violently than at first.) 

Mar. (turning out the Turnkey in a passion, 

und returning sternly to Rayner.) 

What means this wild and most unnatural 

mirth .' 
This lightness of the soul, strange and un- 

suited 
To thy unhappy state ? it shocks me much. 
Approaching death brings naught to scare the 



Yet has it wherewithal to awe the boldest : 
And there are seasons when the lightest soul 
Is call'd on to look inward on itself 
In awful seriousness. 

Ray. Thou dost me wrong ; indeed thou 

dost me wrong. 
I laugh'd, but, faith ! I am not light of soul : 
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath 

felt 
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry. 
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world. 
The soberness of undisturbed bliss 
Held even empire o'er the minds of men. 
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky. 
But when she came, then came the roaring 

storm. 
Lowering and dark ; wild, changeful, and 

perturb'd ; 
Whilst thro' the rent clouds oft times shot the 

gleam 
More bright and powerful for the gloom 

around it. 
E'en midst the savage strife of warring pas- 
sions. 
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came, 
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night ; 
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful 

thought 
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth 
The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee 

pardon ! 
I am not light of soul. 

Death is to me an awful thing; nay, Father, 
I fear to die. And were it in my power, 
By suffering of the keenest racking pains, 
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature, 
I could such things endure, that thou would'st 

marvel. 
And cross thyself to see such coward-bravery. 
For oh I it goes against the mind of man 
To 'oe turn'd out from its warm wonted home, 
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill. 



262 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Mar. Come to my breast, my son ! thou hast 

subdued me. {Embracing him.) 

And now we will lift up our thoughts to 

him 
Who halh in mercy saved thy hands from 
blood. 
Ray. Yes, in great mercy, for the which 
I'd bow 
In truer thankfulness, my good Mardonio, 
Ev"n with tiiese fears of nature on my mind, 
Than for the blessing of my spared life, 
Were it now profter'd me. 
( They retire into the obscurity of the dungeon, 
at the bottom of the stage, and the Scene closes 
on them.) 

Scene II. — a small apartment in a 

SOLITARY COTTAGE IN THE COUNTRY: 

Enter Count Zaterloo, supported by an at- 
tendant and follovyed by the Countess in the 
disguise of a Pilgrim; both of them wearing 
masks. She places a pillow for his head on a 
couch or sick chair, and he is placed upon it, 
apparently with pain. 

Countess Z.{to Attendant.) There, set him 
gently down ; this will support him. 

(To Count Zaterloo.) How art thou now ? I 
fear thou'rt very faint 

After so long ajourney. 

(To Attendant.) We have no farther need of 
thine assistance : 

Thou wilt retire, but be upon the watch. 

[Exit Attendant. 
Count Z. (unmasking.) Now, charming 
Mira, lay disguise aside : 

Speak thine own natural voice, and be thy- 
self: 

There is no eye to look upon us now ; 

No more excuse for this mysteriousness. 

Let me now look upon thy face and bless it ! 

Thou hast done well by me: thou'rt wondrous 
gentle. 

I knew thee fair and charming, but I knew 
not 

Thou wertof such a soft and kindly nature. 

(TAe Countess unmasks and looks at him sor- 
rowfully.) 

Ha ! mother ! is it you ? 

Countess Z. Who should it be? where 
should'st thou look for kindness.'' 

When we are sick where can we turn for 
succour ; 

When we are wretched where can we com- 
plain ; 

And when the world looks cold and surly on 
us. 

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 

With such sure confidence as to a mother .-" 

The world may scowl, acquaintance may for- 
sake, 

Friends may neglect, and lovers know a 
change ; 

But when a motlier doth forsake her child. 

Men lift their hands and cry, " a prodigy !" 
Count Z. (taking hold of both her hands and 
kissing them.) 



mother ! I have been a thankless child ! 
I've given thee hoary hairs before thy time; 
And added weight to thy declining years, 
Who should have been their stay. 

Countess Z. Be calm, my son, for I do not 

upbraid thee. 
Count Z. Wretch that I am ! 1 was an only 
son, 
And therefore bound by no divided tie 
To be to thee thy hold and thy support. 

1 was a widow's son, and therefore bound 
By every generous and manly tie 

To be in filial duty most devoted. 
O I have vilely done ! I feel it now ; 
But if I live to be a man again, 
I'll prove a better son to thee, dear mother. 
Countess Z. I know thou will, my dearest 
Zaterloo ; 
And do not thus upbraid thyself too sharply ; 
I've been a foolish mother to thy youth, 
But thou wilt pardon me. 

Count Z. Of this no more — How came you 
by my letter.'' 
If you did intercept it on its way, 
Mira is faithful still. 

Countess Z. It was from Mira's hand that I 
received it. 
She toss'd it at me with a jeering smile 
When I with anxious tears inquired for thee. 
Count Z. (rising half from his seat in great 
passion.) O faithless, faithless wo- 
man ! she it was, 
Who made of me the cursed thing I am ! 
I've been a fool indeed and well requited. 

Base, avaricious and ungrateful oh ! 

(Putting his hand on his side as if seized with 
sudden pain.) 

Countess Z. Such agitation suits not with 
thy state : 
What ails thee now .'' 

Count Z. The pain, the pain ! it has re- 
turn'd again 
With increased violence. 

Countess Z. God send thee ease ! why dost 
thou look so wildly. 
And grasp my hand so hard .'' What is't dis- 
turbs thee ? 
Count Z. My time on earth is short. 
Countess Z. Nay, say not so : thou may'st 
recover still. 

why this seeming agony of mind ? 
'Tis not the pain that racks thee. 

Count Z. There's blood upon my head ; I 

am accursed. 
Countess Z. Good heaven forfend ! thou 
wand'rcstin thy speech. 
Thy life I know is forfeit to the law 
By some unlawful act, but oh no blood ! 
Count Z. O for a short respite ! but 'twill 
not be : 

1 feel my time is near. 

Countess Z. Thou wand'rest much : there's 
something on thy mind, 
Dark'ning thy fancy. 

Count Z. 'Twas I that did it — I that murder- 
ed him : 
He who must suffer for it did it not. 



RAYNERi A TRAGEDY. 



263 



Countess Z. What words are these ? my 
blood runs cold to hear them. 
Count Z. {alarm d.) Be still, be still ! there's 
some one at the door : 
All round me is exposed and insecure. 
Countess Zaterloo goes to the door and re- 
ceives something from a Servant, shutting 
the door immediatthj.) 
Countess Z. It is a servant come to fetch 

me something. 
Count. Z. Has he not heard it.^ he has 
heard it all ! 

(In violent alarm and agitation.) 

Countess Z. Be still, be still! it is impossible. 

Thou'st wak'd the pain again ; I see thee 

tremble. 

Count Z. (writhing as if in great pain.) 

Ay, this will master me : 'twill have me 

now : 
What can be done.' O for a short reprieve ! 
Countess Z. Alas, my child ! what would'st 

thou have me do ? 
Cou7it Z. I would have time turn'd back- 
ward in his course, 
And what is past ne'er to have been : myself 
A thing that no existence ever had. 
Canst thou do this for me .' 
Countess Z. Alas ! I cannot. 
Count Z. Then cursed be thy early moth- 
er's cares ! 
Would thou had'st lifted up my infant form 
And dash'd it on the stones I I had not liv'd, 
I had not lived to curse thee for thy pains. 
Countess Z. And dost thou curse me then .' 
Count Z. (soften d.) O no ! I do not ! 
I did not curse thee, mother : was it so ? 
Countess Z. No, no, thou didst not; yet I 
have deserv'd — 
I was a mother selfish in my fondness ; 
And with indulgence, senseless andextreme. 
Blasted the goodly promise of thy youth. 
Count Z. (rising half up alarm d from his 
couch.) Hark '. there's a noise again ! 
hast thou more servants 
Coming with errands to thee.' — We're dis- 
cover'd ! 
Countess Z. Be not so soon alarm'd : it is 

impossible. 
Count Z. Is there an inner chamber ? lead 
me there ; (Pointing to a door.) 
I cannot rest in this, (stopping short eagerly 
as she is leading liin out with great difficulty.) 

Thine absence haply 

From thine own house, suspicion may create : 
Return to it again, and thro' the day 
Live there as thou art wont; by fall of eve 
Thoul't come to me again. — I'm very weak; 
I must lean hard upon thee. 
[Exit, looking suspicinvsl y behind him as if 
he heard a noise, and supported loitk great 
difficulty by his mother. 

ScEi\E III. THE COUNTESS ZATEKLOO'S 

HOUSE. 

Enter Countess and a Female Attendant. 



Attendant. Ah! wherefore, madam, are you 
thus disturb'd 
Pacing from room to room with restless 

change. 
And turning still a keen and anxious ear 
To every noise ? What can I do for you ? 
Countess Z. Cease, cease ! thou canst do 
nothing, my good girl : 
I have a cause, but do not seek to know it. 
Enter a Servant. 

Ser. There is a stranger 

Countess Z. (starting with alarm.) Ha '. what 
dost thou say .' 
A stranger ! what appearance does he wear r' 
Is there but one ^ Looks he suspiciously? 
Ser. Be not alarmed, madam ; 'tis a woman. 
Countess Z. (feigning composure.) Thou 
art a fool to think I am alarm'd : 
Or man or woman, whosoe'er it be, 
I am unwell, and must not be disturb'd. 
Ser. It is a lady of distinguish'd niein, 
Tho' much in grief, and she so carnestl}' 
Pleads for admittance that I am compell'd — 
Pardon me, madam; but to look upon her 
Would move your heart to pity. 

Countess Z. Let her enter. [Exit Servant. 
Who may this be.' why do I tremble thus.' 
In grief! — the wretched surely will not come 
In guileful seeming to betray tiie v.'retched. 
(To Attendant.) Know'st thou who this mav 
be.' 
Attendant. Indeed I do not. 
Countess Z. Retire then to a distance : here 
she comes : 
But do not leave the chamber. 
(Attendant retires to the bottom of the stage, 
and enter Elizabeth laitk her hair and dress 
disordered, like one distracted icith grief.) 
JSliz. Madam, I come a stranger to your 
presence, 
By misery embolden'd, and uyg'd on 
By desperation. In your pity only 
Lives all the hope of my most wretched 

state ; 
O kill it not ! push mo not to the brink . 
Of misery so deep and terrible ! 
Have pity ! O have pity on my woe ! 
Thou art a woman, and a woman's heart 
Will not be shut against a wretched woman. 
Countess Z. What would'st thou asit .' thou 
dost with too much grief 
Conceal the point and object of thy suit. 
Eliz. There is in prison bound, condemn'd 
to die, 
And for a crime by others hands committed, 
A noble youth, and ray betrothed love: 
Your son — O shrink not back, nor look so 

sternly ! 
Your son, as secret rumour hath inform'd me. 
Mortally wounded and with little hope 
Of life, can ample testimony give, 
Being himself of those who did the deed, 
That Rayner did it not : — O let him then, 
In whate'er secret place he lies conceal'd, 
In pity let him true confession make ; 
And we will bless him — Heav'n will pardon 
him ! 



'264: 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



Countess Z. Despair hath made thee mad ! 
art thou aware 

What thou dost ask of me ? Go to our gov- 
ernors ; 

They may have pity on thee ; but from me 

It were an act against the sense of nature. 
Eliz. Nay, say not so! I have for mercy 
sued 

At the proud feet of power, and been reject- 
ed ; 

What injury can reach a dying man ? 

Can his few hours of breathing poise the 
scales 

'Gainst the whole term of a man's reckou'd 
life 

In youth's best strength ? 

Countess Z. Go, thou hast been deceiv'd 
with a false tale : 

And, were it true, hope ends not but with 
life ; 

Heaven only knows who is a dying man. 
Eliz. For blessed charity close not your 

pity 

Against all other feelings but your own ! 

( Clasping the Countess' knees mid kissing 
her hand.) 
Sweet lady ! gentle lady ! dearest lady ! 
O be not ruthless to a soul bow'd down 
In extreme wretchedness ! 

Countess Z. Cease, cease ! unlock thy hold : 
embrace me not ! 
Has he for whom thou plead'st from out o' 

thyself 
Received his being.' press'd with infant lips 
Thy yearning bosom .'' smiled upon tliy knees, 
And bless'd thine ear with his first voice of 

words ? 
Away, away I despair has made thee mad, 
That thus tliou hang'st upon me. 

Eliz. O he for whom I plead is to my soul 
Its soul : is to iny fancy its bound world, 
In which it lives and moves ; all else beyond 
Darkness, anniliilation. O have pity ! 
For well thou say'st, despair has made me 
mad. 

Coiintess Z. Let go, let go ! thou with a 
tigress striv'st. 
Defending her bay'd whelp : 1 have no pity. 
Heav'n will have pity on thee ! let me go; 
Unlock thy desp'rate hold. 
{Breaks from her and runs out, and Elizabeth, 

quite overcome, sinks upon the ground, the 

Attendant rushina forward from the bottom 

of the stage to support her.) 

Enter Father Mardo.mo. 

Mar. (raising her.) My daughter, heav'n 
will send in its good time 

The aid that is appointed for ihy state. 

Contend no more, but to its righteous will 

Submit thvself. Let me conduct thee hence. 

[Exeunt Mardonio a7id Attendant supporting 
her. Re-enter the Countess, looking fearful- 
ly round, her as she enters. 
Countess Z. She is gone now : thank God 
that she is gone ! 

There is a liorrid conflict in my mind. 



What shall I do .' I strongly am beset. 

I will go quickly to some holy man. 

And ghostly counsel ask. 

[Exit, crossing the stage tcith a quick irreso- 
lute step, sometimes stopping to consider, and 
then hurrying on again. 



ACT V. 

Scene L — a spacious outer room in 

THE prison. 

Enter an Under-Jailor and a Clown. 

Clown. I pray thee now, my good friend, 
here is a piece of money for thee — very good 
money too; thou may'st look o' both sides of 
it an' thou wilt : it has been wrapped up in 
the foot of my old holiday stockings since last 
Michaelmas twelvemonth, and neither sun 
nor wind has blown upon it. Take it, man, 
thou art heartily welcome to it if thou canst 
put me into a good place near the scaffold ; 
or a place where I may see him upon the scaf- 
fold ; for I am five and thirty years old next 
Shrove-Tuesday when the time comes round, 
and I have never yet seen in all my born days 
so much as a thief set i' the stocks. 

Jail. Poor man ! thou hast lived in most 
deplorable ignorance indeed. But stand aside 
a little, here is the fiimous executioner of 
Olmutz a-coming, who has been sent lor ex- 
pressly to do the job ; for our own is but a 
titulary hangman ; he has all the honours of 
the office, but little experience in the duties 
of it. 

Clown. O dickens, I'll creep into a corner 
then, and have a good look of him. A man 
that has cut off" men's heads, save us all ! he 
must have a strange bloody look about him for 
certain. 

Enter two Executioners, speaking as they 
enter. 

First Ex. What! no execution in this town- 
for these ten years past ^ Lord pity yon all 
for a set of poor devils indeed ! Why I have 
known a smaller town than this keep ye up 
a first executioner for the capital business, 
with a second man under him for your petty 
cart-tail and pillory work ; ay, and keep them- 
handsomely employed too. No execution in 
such a town as this for these ten years past ! 
one might as well live amongst the savages. 

Second Ex. It is a pitiful thing to bo sure, 
but don't despise us altogether, Mr. Master : 
we shall improve by and by, please God ; and 
here is a fair beginning for it too, if the Lord 
prosper us. 

First Ex. Ay , thou wilt, perhaps, have the 
honour of hanging a thief or two before tliou 
art the age of Methuselah ; but I warrant ye, 
the beheading of this young nobleman here 
by the famous executioner of Olmutz will be 
remembered amongst you for generations to 
come. It will be the grand date from which 
every thing will be reckoned ; ay, your very 



RAYNEK. •.; A TRAGEDY. 



265 



grand children will boast that their fathers 
were present at the sight. 

Second Ex. I make no doubt on't, my mas- 
ter, but you are a very capital man in your 
way : Lord forbid that 1 should envy the 
greatness of any one ; but I would have you 
to know that there have been others in the 
■vi^orld as good as yourself ere now : my own 
father cut off Baron Koslam's head upon this 
very scaffold that we now hear them ham- 
mering at. 

First Ex. Some wandering hocus-pocus 
Baron, I suppose, that sold nostrums for the 
tooth-ach. 1 always put such fellows into 
the hands of mv underling to operate upon ; 
I never count the dealing with them as your 
prime work, tho' for certain we must call it 
your head-work ; ha ! ha I ha ! {holding out 
his axe in a vain-glorious manner.) Seest 
thou this axe of mine ? The best blood of the 
country has been upon its edge : to have had 
one's father or brother under its stroke, let me 
tell thee, is equal to a patent of nobility. 

Second Ex. Well, be it so : I envy no man, 
God be praised ! tlm' thou art set over my 
head upon this occasion. I have whipp'd, 
branded, and pilloried in great meekness and 
humility for these seven years past ; but the 
humble shall be exalted at last, and I shall 
have better work to do, by and by, God will- 
ing. Let us have no more contention about it. 
— Who's there ? {observing Jailor a?id Clown. 
Ay, Jailor, do thou go and kick up the black 
prince, he is snoring in some corner near us, 
and send him for some brandy. 
(Jailor coming forward, icith the Clown creep- 
ing after him half afraid.) 

Jail. The black prince is no where to be 
found ; he has not been seen since the cells 
were locked. 

Second Ex. Go fetch us some liquor thy- 
self then. 

First Ex. But who is this sneaking behind 
thee, and afraid to show his face .'' 

Jail. Only a poor countryman, a friend of 
mine, who wanted to look at you as you past. 

First Ex. Yes, yes, every body has a curi- 
osity to look at extraordinary persons, (to 
Clown.) Come forward, man, and don't be 
afraid. Did'st thou ever before see any thing- 
better than a poor parish priest, or a scrubby 
lord of the village .'' didst thou, eh? 

Clown, (abashed.) I don't know, please 
you : my brother did once stand within a 
team's length of the Prince of Carara, when 
he passed through our village on his way to 
Fraticonia. 

First Ex. So then thou art not the first of 
thy family that has seen a great man. But 
don't be afraid, my good fellow, I a'nt proud 
nor haughty as many of them be : thou shalt 
even shake hands with me an' thou wilt. 
(Holding out his hand to Clown, who shrinks 

from him,, and puts kis hands behind his 

back.) 

Clown. No, I thank you ; I ben't much of 
a hand-shaker : I have got a little sore on my 

33 



thumb, may it please you : I thank you all 
the same as tho' I did. 

First Ex. Ay, thou art too mannerly to call 
it the thing that we wot of Well, ihou art 
a good sort of fellow ; don't be abash'd : thou 
see'st I am very condescending to thee. 
Come, then, thou shalt drink a cup of liquor 
with me. Follow us into the next ward, my 
good friend. 

Clown, (shrinking from him again.) O na, 
save your presence ! I'll go with the jailor 
here. 

First Ex. (to Second Executioner.) Ay, 
he is but a poor bashful clown, and don't 
know how to behave himself in good compa- 
ny. [Exeunt Executioners. 

Clown. Shake hands with him, Mary pre- 
serve us ! it sets the very ends of my fingers 
a dingling. Drink out of the same mug with 
him too ! (sputtering with his lips) poh ! poll I 
poll I the taste of raw heads and carrion is on 
my lips at the thoughts of it. (To Jailor .J 
Come let us go out of this place ; I be long 
enough here, (stepping short as he goes off.) 
What noise and hammering is this we hear ? 

Jailor. It is the workmen putting up the 
scaffold. 

Clown, (starting.) What, are we so near 
to it ^ mercy on us ! let me get out of this 
place, for it puts me into a terrible quandary. 

Jailor. If this be the mettle thou art made 
of, thou had'st better take thy money again, 
and I'll give thy place for the sight to some- 
body that has got a stouter heart than thou 
hast. 

Clorcn. Na, na, I won't do that neither ; I 
have a huge desire to see how a man looks 
when he is going to have his head cut off, 
and I'll stay for the sight tho' I should swoon 
for it. Poor man I poor man ! what frightful 
things there be in this world when one's 
mind sets a thinking upon it ! — Is he a tall 
man now, (to Jailor) or a short man ? a pale- 
faced man, or ay, pale enough, I warrant. 

Mercy on us ! I shall think of him many a 
night after this before I go to sleep. Poor 
man ! poor man ! what terrible things there 
be in this world, if a body does but think of 
them. [Exeunt Clown and Jailor. 

Scene II. — a dungeon ; rayner dis- 
covered SITTING AT A TABLE BY THE 
LIGHT OF A LAMP, VPITH A BOOK IN 
HIS HAND ; THE CLOCK FROM A NEIGH- 
BOURING STEEPLE STRIKES THREE, 
AND HE, ROUSr.D WITH THE SOUND, 
LAYS DOWN THE BOOK. 

RaTj. This bell speaks with a deep and sul- 
len voice : 
The time comes on apace with silent speed. 
Is it indeed so late .•" (Looking at his watch.) 
It is even so. 

(Pausing, and looking still at the jcatch.) 
How soon time flies away ! yet, as I watch it, 
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand. 



266 



RAYNER ! A TRAGEDY. 



I should have liv'd an age since yesterday, 
And have an age to hve. Still on it creeps, 
Each little moment at another's heels, 
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up 
or such small parts as these ; and men look 

back, 
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is. 
Thou trav'llest like a ship in the wide ocean, 
Which hath no bounding shore to mark its 

progress. 

Time ! ere long I shall have done with 

thee. 
When next thou leadest on thy nightly 

shades, 
Tho' many a weary heart thy steps may 

count, 
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me. 
Then sli;ill I be a thing, at thought of which 
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime. 
Or wheels in wildness of unfathom'd fears : 
A thought; a consciousness; unbodied spirit. 
Who but would shrink from this.'' It goes 

hard with thee, 
Social connected man ; it goes hard with 

thee 
To be turned out into a state unknown. 
From all thy kind, an individual being. 
But wherefore shrink .'' came we not thus to 

earth .■' 
And he who sent, prepar'd reception for us. 
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepar'd. 
As we believe ! — yet, Heaven pardon me ! 

1 fain would sculk beneath my wonted 

cov'ring, 
Mean as it is. 
Ah, Time ! when next thou fill'st thy nightly 

term. 
Where shall 1 be ? Fve ! fye upon thee 

still! -^ -^ i 

Ev'n where weak infancy, and tim'rous age, 
And maiden fearfulness have gone before 

thee ; 
And where, as well as him of firmest soul. 
The meanly-minded and the coward are. 
Then trust thy nature, at tli' approaching 

push. 
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants, 
And can bear all things. (Rising from his 
scat, and walking several times back- 
ward andfurward.) 
1 know not how it is, I'm wond'rous heavy; 
Faiii would I rest a while. This weary 

frame 
Has but a little more to do for me. 
And yet it asks for rest. I'll lay me down ; 
It may be possible that I shall sleep, 
After these weary tossings of the mind ; 
I feel as tho' I should. (Goes to sleep, cov- 
ering himself with a cloak.) 

Enter Ohio, creeping out from n liiding place :it 
the bottom of the stage, and going softly up to 
Rayner, looks for some time upon him with 
a malicious grin. 

Ohio. Tiiou hast lov'd negroes' blood, I 
warrant thee. 
Dost .sleep .' ay, they will waken thee ere long. 



And cut thy head off. They'll put thee to rest ; 
They'll close thine eyes for thee without thy 

leave ; 
They'll bloat thy white skin for thee, lily- 
face . 
Come, less harm will I do thee than thy fel- 
lows : 
My sides are cold : a dead man nfeeds no 

cloak. 
(Beginning gently to pull q^ Rayner's cloak, 
who starts frvm his sleep, and looks at him 
in amazement.) 

Ray. Ha ! what hole of the earth hath cast 
thee up ? 
What thing art thou.' and what would'st 
thou with me ? 
Ohio. My sides are cold ; a dead man needs 

no cloak. 
Ray. 'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the 
living. 
Where dost thou run to now? where wert 

thou hid.' 
Ohio, (after running to his hiding place, and 
fetching out a stick, which he presents to 
Rayner.) 
Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me. 

Ray. I would not harm thee for a greater 
fault. 
I'm sorry thou art cold ; here is my cloak : 
Thou hast said well ; a dead man needs it 

not. 
I know thee now; thou art the wretched 

negro 
Who serves the prisoners ; 1 have observ'd 

thee : 
I'm sorry for thee ; thou art bare enough, 
And winter is at hand. 

Ohio. Ha ! art thou sorry that the negro 's 
cold ? 
Where wert thou born who art so pitiful:' 
I will not take thy cloak, but I will love 

thee. 
They shall not cut thy head off. 

Ray. Go thy vi'ays ; 
Go sculk within thy hiding place again, 
And, when the cell is open'd. save thyself. 
O/iio. They shan't cut off thy head. 
Ray. Now, pray thee go. 
Ohio. I'll kiss thy feet; I'll spend my 

blood for thee. 
Ray. I do beseech thee go ! there's some 
one coming : 
I hear them at the door. (Pushes him hastily 
of.) 

Enter Hardibrand, advancing slowly to Rat- 
NJKR, his eyes cast upon the ground. 

Ray. Good morrow, general : where's thy 
friendly hand .' 
Why dost thou turn thine eyes aside, and 

fear 
To look me in the face ? Is there upon it ■ 
Aught that betrays the workings of the mind 
Too strongly mark'd ? I will confess to thee 
I've struggl'd hard, I've felt the fears of na- 
ture ; 
But yet I have the spirit of a man 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



267 



That will uphold me : therefore, my brave 

friend, 
Do me the grace to look upon me boldly : 
I'll not disgrace thee. 

Har. No, my valiant boy ! 
I know thou'lt not disgrace me, nor will I 
Put shame on thee by wearing on this morn 
A weeping face : I will be valiant too. 
We will not, Rayner, tho' thou'rt thus — Oh ! 
oh ! (Bursting into tears.) 

Ray. My gen'rous friend, my second fa- 
ther, why 
Wilt thou oppress me thus .■' 

Har. Bear with me, bear with me; I 
meant to brave it, 
And I will brave it. But to thee, my son, 
In thy distress, encompass'd as thou art, 
My heart so strongly has enlink'd itself. 

That to part from thee, boy, is 

{Falling on his neck, and bursting again into 

tears.) 

Enter Makdonio. 

Mardonio. {after looking at them for some time, 

and in a solemn imposing tone of voice.) 
The strength of man sinks in the hour of trial ; 
But there doth live a pow'r that to the battle 
Girdelh the weak : Heaven's vivifying grace. 
And strength, and holy confidence be thine. 
Who art in'mercy^stricken ! (Holding up his 

right hand to heaven, whilst Rayner. 

approaching with reverence, bows 

himself beneath it very loio.) 
Ray. Thanks to thee, father I these are 

words of power. 
And I do feel their strength. Beneath that 

hand 
Which hath in mercy stricken me, I bow ; 
Yea bow, the nobler and the bolder grown 
For such humility. — (Familiarly.) How goes 

the time .'' 
Does day begin to dawn .' 

Mar. Grey light peeps faintly o'er the 

eastern towers. 
Roy. The time is then advanc'd; we'll 

husband it. 
Come close to me, my friends. (Taking 

Hardibrand and Mardonio each by the 

hand, and pressing them close to his 

breast.^ 
Of worldly cares, upon my mind there rests 
But only those which I have mention'd to 

you. 
Yet, in this solemn hour, let me remind 

you :— 
My poor Elizabeth 



Har. (eagerly.) Thou'st said enough : 
She is my child, and heiress of my lands 
To the last rood. — Ah ! what avails it now ! 

Ray. How shall a dying man find thanks 
for this, 
Whose day is closed.' I will attempt no 

thanks. 
The other wish that closely presses on me : — 
Mardonio, upon thee must hang this boon : — 
That miserable man of whom I've told you ; 
Now living in the hell of his remorse, 



Cut off from human intercourse ; whose 

horros 
And midnight vision sav'd this hand from 
blood : 

I fain 

Har. (again eagerly interrupting him.) 
Fear not I fear not ! he siiall be sav'd ; 
And shall with human beings yet consort 
In blessed charity, if ghostly care 
From holiest men procur'd, or off rings made 
To every sacred shrine on christian ground 
Can give him peace. 

Ray. (smiling and pressing Hardibrand to 
his boso7n.) 
With all the prompt and gen'rous profusion 
Of eager youth dost thou, mine aged friend, 
Take every thing upon thee. Be it so. 
And good Mardonio with his sober counsel 
Will aid thy bounty. Here I join your 

hands: 
My worldly cares are clos'd. 
Enter Elizabeth, followed by Richard and 
Bertram, who remain on the back ground 
whilst she comes slowly forward; Rayner 
turning round on hearing them enter. 
Ah ! who is this ? 
Alas! alas! it is Elizabeth. 

(Holding out his hand to her.) 
Advance, my love ; thou'rt ever welcome 

here. 
How does it fare with thee f 

Eliz. It is all mist and darkness with me 
now ; 
I know not how it fares with me. 

Ray. Alas ! 
Thou gentle soul ! a dark cloud o'er thee 

hangs. 
But thro' the gloom the sun again will break, 
And, in the soberness of calm remembrance, 
Thou wilt look back upon misfortunes past 
Like tempests that are laid. Thou dost not 

heed me : 
Thou dost not speak tome. Alas! alas ! 
What shall I say to thee ? 
I 've lov'd thee well, and would have lov'd 

thee long, 
Had it so been — But thou shalt be belov'd ! 
Heaven will take charge of thee when I'm 

at rest : 
The kindly and the good shall be thy kindred, 
(Putting her hand in Hardibrand's.) 
And ev'ry sorrowful and gentle heart 
Shall icnit itself to thee, and call thee sister. 
(Elizabeth makes a motion icith her hand as if 
she iDuuld speak, and he pauses, but she is 
silent.) 
What meant, my love, that motion of thy 
hand ? 
Mar. She fain would speak to thee, but 

has no voice. 
Ray. I know it well, Elizabeth; no voice 
Need'st thou to tell me how thou'st dearly 

lov'd me. 
And dearly do I prize it ; 'tis my pride ; 
E'en humbl'd as 1 am, it is my pride. 
Heaven's dearest blessings rest upon thy 
' head !— 



268 



RAYNER ; A TRAGEDY. 



And now, since we must part, do in thy love, 
Do for inc this last grace ; bid me farewell, 
And let my earthly sorrows now be clos'd. 
Heaven's blessing rest upon thee ! 
(He kisses her, and she turns to go aicay, Ray- 
ner looking after her as shegueSjbutpresent- 
hj returns again.) 
Ray. Thou ait return'd, my soul ; what 

would St thou have ? 
Eliz. {171 a broken voice.) A thought — a 
wish did press upon my heart, 
But it is gone. 

Ray. I tliank thee for thy wish ; 
It is a good one, tho' thou canst not speak it, 
And it will do me good. But leave me ! 

leave me I 
Thou wilt unfit me for a task of strength. 
(Elizabeth again attempts to go aioay, but still 

returns.) 
Ah, wherefore still ! wilt thou be cruel to 
me ? 
Eliz. O, no ! O, no ! I know not what I 
do: 
It is all mist and darkness with me now : 
I look upon thee, but I see thee not. 
Let me once more but feel thy handi n mine. 
And send me where ye will : my being then 
Is at an end. (They embrace again, arid she 
still continues to hang upon him.) 
Ray. (to Bertram and Richard.) 
O, lead her hence, and have some mercy 
on me ! 
My father died i' the field a valiant death. 
And shall his son upon the scaffold die 
O'ercome and weak, reft of that decent firm- 
ness 
Which ev'n the base and vulgar there as- 
sume ? 

lead her hence ! in mercy lead her hence ! 
(Bertram and Richard tear her from him, and 

lead her away, lohilst he turns his back, and 
hides his face loith his hands.) 
Elizabeth, (stopping short, and tossing up her 
arms distractedly as they are leading her 
out.) 

Reprieve ! reprieve ! I hear a voice i' the 
air ! 

1 hear it yet again ! 
Rayner. (uncovering his face, andlooking about 

eagerly, whilst Hardibrand rushes forward 
impetuously from the bottom of the stage, 
where he has been, pacing backward and for- 
icard loith hasty strides.) 
Is't any thing .'' 

Mar. Alas no ! all is silent : 'tis the fancy 
Of fond distraction list'ning to itself. 

Har. Nay, it was something : Bertram, 

thou did'st hear it.'' 
Ber. No, 1 heard nothing. 
Har. Wliat, nor thou, good Richard .' 
Rich. No, nothing. 
Elizabeth, (holding up her arm distractedly as 

Richard and Bertram lead her off.) 
And is it nothing I no redemption near ! 
[Exeunt Elizabeth, Richard, and Bertram, 
whilst Rayner, uttering a deep groan, hides 
his face, and Hardibrand returns with hasty 



strides to the bottom of the stage. 

Ray. (uncovering his face ^ Is she gone now.' 

Mar. She is. 

Ray. Thank God for it ! Now to our task: 

(Stepping forward icith assumed firmness.) 

What of it now remains we shall o'er-master. 

Pray thee how goes the time ^ But pardon 

me I 
I have too oft inquir'd how goes the time : 
It is my weakness. 

Mar. The morning now advances. 

Ray. So I reckon'd. 
We too shall put ourselves in forwardness : 
And so, good father, to your ghostly guidance 
I do commend myself. 

Enter Jailor. 

Jailor. The officers of justice are arrived, 
And wait the presence of the prisoner. 

Ray. They come upon us sooner than we 
wist; 
But 'tis so much the better. 

(To Mardonio aside.) 
Shall we have time allow'd us for retirement, 
Before they lead me forth .'' 
Mar. 'lis ever so allow'd. 
Ray. Come then, I feel me stronger than I 
was : 
'Twill soon be past ; the work goes on apace. 
(Taking hold (*/' Hardibrand and Mardonio as 

he goes out.) 
Your arm, 1 pray : — I know not how it is ; 
My head feels dizzy, but my limbs are firm. 
Good Hardibrand, think'st thou I shall dis- 
grace thee ? 
Har. No, by the mass ! I'll give them 
this old carcass 
To hack for crow's meat if thoushrink'st one 

hair's breadth 
From the comportment of a gallant soldier, 
And of a brave man's son. 

Ray. (smiling loith a gratified look.) I 
thank thee. 
Methinks I now tread, as I onward move, 
With more elastic and dilating step. 
As if a spirit of pride within me stirr'd. 
Buoying me up on the swoln billows ridge. 

[E.\EUNT. 



Scene III. — an outer garden-room 

OR PORTICO IN the HOUSE WHERE 
ZATERLOO IS CONCEALED. 

Enter Countkss and a Confessor, with two 
Attendants bearing Zaterloo on a small 
couch, which they set down on the middle of 
the stage ; the Attendants retire. 

Countess Z. The air revives him : look, 1 
pray thee, father. 
How the fresh air revives hira : say not then 
All hope is banish'd quite.— Thou shak'st 

thy head ; 
But whilst I see upon his moving breast 
One heave of breath, betok'ning life within, 
I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go. 

(Bending over the couch.) 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



269 



My son! my son I hear'st thou my voice, 
my son ? 
Count Z. Yes, mother : 1 have had a fear- 
ful struggle. 
'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me, 
And I must yield to him. — O pious fatlier ! 
Pray thou for mercy on me. 
Countess Z. Yes, my son, 
This holy man shall pray for thee ; the 

shrines 
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee; masses 
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace : — 
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony, 
Hast spoken precious words of heav'nly 

grace ; 
Therefoie be comforted. 

Count Z. (shaking his head.) There is no 
comfort here : dark, veil'd, and ter- 
rible, 
That which abides me ; and how short a 

space 

Countess Z. O thou may'st yet recover ! 
Con. Lady, forbear ! this is no time to 
soothe 
With flatfrmg hopes : his term is near its 

close ; 
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you. 
Send off the messenger with his confession. 
Lest it should be too late to save the inno- 
cent, 
And he be sent unto his long account 
With a most heavy charge upon his head. 
Countess Z. Thou mak'st me tremble. — 
Ho ! There, you without ! 
Send here the messenger. (Calling off the 
stage.) 

His steed is ready : 

He siiall forthwith depart. 

EHter Messenger. 

Con. (io Messenger.) Take thou this pack- 
et, and with full-bent speed 
Go to the city to the governor, 
And see that into his own iiand thou give it. 
With charges that he read it instantly. 
It is of precious moment to his life 
Who on the scaiTold should this morning 

suffer. 
Quick mount thy horse : few, minutes goaded 

speed 
Will take thee to the gates. 

Mes. Few minutes goaded speed, five 

leagues to master ! 
Con. Five leagues 1 thou'rt mad. 
Mes. No, marry ! know ye not 
The flooded river hath last night broke down 
The nearer bridge .' 

Con. What, art thou sure of this ? 
Mes. I am now come from gazing on the 
sight. 
From bank to bank the red swoln river roars ; 
And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass 
Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark. 
The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain, 
Trunks of huge trees torn by the roots, — ay, 
save us ! 



And floating carcasses of perish'd things. 
Bloated and black, are borne along ; whilst 

currents 
Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams 
On rude uneven surface, far beyond 
The water's natural bed, do loudly war 
And terrible contest hold ; a,nd swoltring ed- 
dies 
With dizzy whirling fury^ toss aloft 
Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round 
Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged 

foam, 
All fiercely whit'ning in the morning light. 
Crowds now are standing upon either shore 
In awful silence ; not a sound is heard 
But the flood's awful voice, and from the city 
A dismal bell heard thro' the air by starts. 
Already tolling for the execution. 

Con. What's to be done .'' fate seems to war 
against us. 
No, no ! we'll not despair ! Mount thy fleet 
horse. 

Life and death's in thy speed : 

Let naught one moment stop thee on thy 

way : 
All things are possible to vig'rous zeal : 
Life and death's in thy speed : depart ! de- 
part ! 
And Heaven be with thine efforts. 

[E.KIT Messenger, flfi!er reccio^K^ thepacket. 
Count Z. Is he gone .' is it done ? 
Con. Yes, he is gone : God grant he be in 
time, 
For unto human reck'ning 'tis impossible ! 
(To Countess xcith an upbraiding look.) 

Half an hour sooner 

Countess Z. Oh, torment me not ! 
Who could foresee this hind'rance .' — O, good 

father ! 
Look to thy penitent. Upon his count'nance 
There's something new and terrible. Speak 

to him : 
Go close to him, good father. — O my son! 
Count Z. I feel within me now — Uiis is the 
feeling : 
I am upon the brink, the dreadful brink : 
It is a fearful gulf I have to shoot. 

yet support me ! in this racking pain 

1 still may hold a space the grasp of life. 
And keep back from the dark and horrid — Oh! 
(uttering a deep groan.) It is upon me ! 
(Struggles and expires with a faint groan. 

Countess, wringing her hands in agony of 
grief, is hurried off tlie stage by the Confess- 
or and Attendants, who rush in and talm 
hold of her.) 

Scene IV. — an open sq,i;are before 

THE GREAT GATE OF THE PRISOJV. 

A crowd of spectators, with guards, &c., are dis- 
covered, waiting for the coming forth of Ray- 
nek to his execution, and a solemn bell is 
heard at intervals. The gate opens, and enter 
Rayner walking between Mardonio and 
Hardibrand, and followed by Richard and 



270 



RAYNER. A TRAGEDY. 



Bert K AM, preceded and followed by guards, 
officeis, &LC. The procession moves slowly 
over the stage, and exeunt, followed by the 
greater part of the Crowd, though a good many 
of theni still remain upon the stage. Then re- 
enter Hardier AND and Richard, followed 
by one or two of the Crowd: Hardibkand, 
w'alking up and down in a perturbed manner, 
and Richard leaping his back against the 
side-scene, where he continues motionless 
with his eyes fixed on the ground. Tlie mur- 
mur of the multitude is heard for some time 
without, and then ceases, followed by a dead 
silence. 
First Croind. The sound of the multitude 

is still now. 
Second Crowd, {looking out.) I fancy, by 
the crowd who stand all gathei'd round yon- 
der in dead silence, he is now preparing for 
the block. 

Tldrd Croicd. It must be so : mercy on us, 
what a mantle of human faces there be spread 
round on every side, and not one sound of 
voice amongst them all ! (A long pause.) 

Har. (starting and stoppling suddenly, to 
First Crowd.) 
Didst thou hear aught .' 

First Crowd. No, they are still silent. 
Har. Look out, I pray thee, and tell me 
what thou see'st. 

(First Crowd looksout.) 
What dost lliou gaze at with so broad an eye.^ 
First Crowd. The executioner is now mount- 
ed upon the platform, and the prisoner 

O ! 1 cannot look any more ! 

{Jl loud confused noise is heard without.) 
Har. What's that .' 

Second Croiod. It is like the cry of a great 
multitude when they look upon something 
that is terrible. 

First Crowd. Tlien the stroke is given, 
and it is all over now. 
(Hardibrand turns hastily aicay, and rushes to 
the other end of the stage, whilst Richard 
gives a heavy groan, and still remains mo- 
tionless. Jl shout is heard loithout.) 
Har. {returning furiously from the bottom 
of the stage.) 
More of that horrible din ! — 
May they bring down the welkin on their 
heads 1 
Second Crowd, {to First Crowd.) What art 

thou looking at now r 
First Croiod. Nay, there is nothing to look 
at now : the platform is down, and the crowd 
is returning home again. 

Enter Ohio, running across the stage. 

Ohio. I've done it! I've done it! I've done 
it ! [Exit. 

Enter a Messenger in great haste, followed by 
a Civil Officer. 

First Crowd. Where are you running to so 

fast ? 
Mes. Is the execution over ? 
First Croiod. Yes, it is over. 



Mes. Ah ! then I am too late. 

F^irst Croicd. What mean ye by that .' 

Mes. I brought a pardon for him. 

Har. (rushing upon the messenger and col- 
laring him.) 
A pardon ! O confound your tardy speed ! 
Had you upon some paltry wager strove, 
You had run faster. — 0,thou cursed fool ! 

had'st thou sped, I'd made a rich man of 

thee ! 
Mes. {disentangling himself.) My steed and 
I across the high-swoln ood, — 

Those on the shore shrieking to see our bold- 
ness. 

Have fearless swam some miles short of the 
pass 

Which we must else have gain'd, or, by my 
faith, 

1 had been later. 

Har. Thou liest, thou cursed fool ! thou 
should'st have sped 
Swift as a bullet from a cannon's mouth. 

( Collaring him again.) 

Enter Rayner, Mardonio, Bertram, and 
Cro.wd. 
Mar. {to lla.rdihxa.nd, pulling him hack from 
the Messenger.) 
Hold, general ! what hath the poor man done.' 
Har. Wha thas he done ? he's brought a 
pardon, fiend ! 
{The Crowd gives a great shout, crying out 
^^ pardon, pardon," and Hardibrand, iwrra- 
ing round at the noise, and seeing Rayner, 
springs forward, and catches him in his 
arms.) 
God bless us all, and let us keep our wits ! 
Is this true seeing that my eyes are blest 
with .' 

welcome, welcome ! this is wonderful ! 
My boy ! my noble boy ! my gallant boy ! 
Thou art a man again, and I — I'm mad : 
My head wheels round, but 'tis a blessed mad- 
ness. 

What say'st thou ? art thou silent.'' 

Hast no voice .'' 

Ray. To be upon the verge of death is aw- 
ful ; 

And awful from that verge to be recall'd. 

God bless ye ! O God bless ye ! I am spent ; 

But let me draw my breath a little while. 

And I will thank you — I will — bear with 
me : 

1 cannot speak. {Recovering himself, and 

seeing the Crowd gather round him 
with joyful and sympathizing looks.) 

Surely 'tis a kind world I have return'd to ; 

There's sympathy and love in ev'ry heart. 
Mar. {to Messenger.) Whpre is the par- 
don ? let me have it, friend. 

That I may read it. (Messenger gives him a 
paper which he reads.) 

We charge thee upon our authority to set the 
{Reading the rest low to himself.) 

What ! call ye this a pardon which acquits 

Tiie prisoner as guiltless of the crime .' 

May God be praised I how has all this been .' 



RAYNER : A TRAGEDY. 



271 



Mes. Count Zaterloo, who on his death-bed 
lies, 
In deep remorse, a paper of confession. 
Attested bj a priest and his own mother, 
Caus'd to be drawn, which to tlie governor 
I've brought, I wot, as quickly as I might, 
Tho' {jpointing to Plardibrand) this good gen- 
tleman — 
Har. {embracing the Messenger.) O no ! O 
no ! thou'rt a brave fellow now. 
And as I've said, I'll make a rich man of thee. 
But I'm bewilder'd still : how hath it been 
That he is sav'd, seeing no pardon reach'd 
him ? 
Mar. Yes, thou may'st wonder ! for some 
unknown friend 
Had sawn across the main prop of the scaffold. 
So that the headsman mounting first, the plat- 
form 
Fell with a crash ; and he, all maim'd and 
bruis'd. 

Unfit to do his office, was perforce 

Har. Ay, ay, 'tis plain, thou need'st not tell 
me more. — 
But he the unknown friend 

Enter Ohio, running exultingly. 

Ohio. 'Twas I that did it 1 
Beat me and scourge me as ye list : I did it ! 
He offer'd me his cloak : he pitied me ; 
And I have paid him back. 

Har. Ha I well done and well said, my 

brave black thing ! 

Art thou a prince .'' in faith I think thou art. 

I'll take thee home, and make a man of thee. 

No, no ! (j)ointing to Rayner) here is my son, 

my heir, my child : 
All that I have is his : he will reward thee. 
Tliou hast a gen'roas mind, altho' debas'd 
With vile oppression and unmanly scorn. 
Ray. {taking Ohio and Hardibrand both by 
the hand.) What shall I say to you .' 
my heart would speak 
What my voice cannot. O ! and here comes 

one 
Who mocks all power of words. 

Enter Elizabeth running, and rushes intoRAY- 
^■ER's arms; the crowd then eagerly gathers 
round them, and closes upon them. 

Mar. {stepping out from the crowd, and look- 
ing upon them.) Yes, gather round 
him, kindly souls tho' rude. 
In the true artless sympathy of r\ature ; 
For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd 
In awful power, but spar'd the thunderbolt. — 
When urg'd by strong temptation to the 

brink 
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind 
With scarce a step between; all-pitying 

Heaven, 
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love. 
Oft times, in dark and awful visitation, 
Doth interpose, and leads the wand'rer back 
To the straight path, to be forever after 
A firm, undaunted, onward bearing traveller, 
Strong in humility, who swerves no more. 

[Exeunt. 



The republication of her works being propos- 
ed in this country, Miss Baillie had the kincness 
to furnish in manuscript the following alterations 
of the tragedy of Rayner, which now, for the 
first time, appear in this edition. 

ALTERATIONS 

IN THE 

TRAGEDY OF RAYNER, 

The better to adapt it for representation, 
The character of Ohio, called the Black 
Prince, and all that regards him to be entirely 
left out. 

The first scene of the fifth act to be omitted. 
The last scene of the Play to be altered as fol- 
lows. 

Scene, a large square or market-place, 
surrounded xoilh buildings, tlie windows 
and roofs of which are crowded with 
spectators. Near the bottom of the stage, 
is a scaffold, ^'c, prepared for anexecvr- 
tioni guards lining the sides of the square, 
and crowds of people seen behind them; a 
solemn bellis heard tolling, at intervals. — 
Enter Kayner, preceded by the Huad's- 
inan, bearing an axe, and walking be- 
tween Hardibrand and Mardonio, offi- 
cers and guards folloiving. They en- 
ter by the front of the stage. 
Ray. {stopping and turning to Hard.) And 
now, my noble friend, proceed no 
farther. 
Here take my last farewell, my thanks, my 

blessing. 
For all the generous love thou'st shewn to me. 
Nay, leave me here, and look not on a sight 
Which might disturb your days and nights to 

come 
With hideous recollections. — Let us part. 
{Embraces Hard, who attempts to speak, but 

cannot.) 
Thy love requires no parting words, dear 

friend ! 
My heart knows all thy generous heart would 

utter. 
Farewell ! farewell, till in a better world 
We meet again ; and there again 111 bless 

thee 
For all the kindness thou hast shewn me here. 
{Turning to Bertram.) 
Bertram, do thou support thy former General, 
Thou'st done so bravely in far diflerent con- 
flicts, 
And lead him quickly from this dismal spot. 
( The Provost, or civil officer presiding over 
the execution, advancing to Rayner.) I grieve to 
say the hour is more than run, and we may 
no longer delay what the law hath decreed. 

Ray. Is it so late ^ I thank you, Mr. Pro- 
vost, for your courtesy and patience, so far. — 
Lead on then ; I am ready. 
{he proceeds to the scaffold, leaning on Mardo- 
nio, aitd having mounted Ike steps, kneels for 
a few moments, and then prepares for the 



272 



RAYNER t A TRAGEDY. 



block. While tins is doing, Bertram endeav- 
ours to lead Hardibrand away by the front 
of the stage.) 

Ber. You do not move, my General; 
you're very faint ; let my arms support you ; 
you must needs leave this spot. 
Har. {throwing his arms over the shoulders of 
Bertram, and hiding his face in his bosom.) 
I cannot move ; tell me when all is over. 
{Jis the Executioner raises his axe for the 
stroke, a voice is heard at some distance with- 
out, calling veliemently.) 
Stop ! stop the execution : life and pardon ! 
Ber. (turning to the scaffold, and leaving his 
hand.) Ho ! stop that hasty fiend I it 
is a pardon ! 
(Herman's voice leithout , heard near and dis- 
tinctly.) I bring a pardon for the 
prisoner ! 
Ber. {still supporting Hard.J Rouse ye, my 
General ; you are half asleep ; 
There is a pardon for the prisoner. 

Hard, {springing upon his feet.) A sound 
from heaven ! a veritable pardon ! 
My ears hear truly now ; a blessed hearing ! 
{Runs to Rayner, icho has been released and i.s 
now descending the scaffold, amidst the ac- 
clamations of the multitude.) 
My boy, my noble boy, my gallant boy ! 
Thou art a man again, and I — I'm mad. 
But how .' thy face is paler than before. 
Thou'rt pardon'd man, dost thou not catch 

mj' words ? 
Joy deals with thee more shrewdly than dis- 
tress. 
Mar. (wavijig off Herman and others, who 
press near Rayner.) 

Stand off a little space, and give him air. 
Ray. {recovering himself.) To be upon the 
verge of death is awful, 
And awful from that verge to be recall'd ! 
Thank God I — And you, my friends, God 

bless ye all ! 
Yet bear with me a little wliile ; I cannot 

speak. 
(Recovering more perfectly and seeing the crowd 

cheering him on everij side.) 
Surely 'tis a kindly world I have return'd to ; 
There's sympathy and love in every heart. 
(The Provost, holding out a paper which he 

has received from Herman.) 
This gives free pardon to the prisoner, 
Who is declared guiltless of the crime, — 
The bloody act for which he was condemned. 
On the confession of the wretched man, 
That was its perpetrator. — 

Her. (now going clo.ie to Rayner.) Yes, my 
dear master 1 Providence is just. 
Count Zaterloo, who on his death bed lies 
In deep remorse, a paper of confession, 
By his own Mother and a Priest attested, 
Caused to be drawn ; which to the Governor 



He sent, entrusted to a timid Messenger, 
Whom spent and in despair, upon the banks 
Of the swoln river happily I found : 
Learnt his sad story ; pull'd him from his steed, 
A noble creature ! on whose back I sprung. 
And plunging straight into the booming flood, 
While crowds on shore stood shrieking at our 

boldness. 
Swam right across some miles below the pass 
Which we must else have gain'd, and been, I 

guess. 
An hour too late to save my master's life. 
My noble master I 

(taking Rayner's hand as if to kiss it.)- 
Ray. (embracing him.) My brave devoted 
Herman ! in my need, 
A friend most true and fearless. — 
But how was this ? 1 thought thee far from 
hence. 
Her. And so I meant to be, but as 1 jour- 
ney 'd. 
Thinking upon your helpless state, dear Mas- 
ter ! 
A strange misgiving came upon my mind. 
And so I turned and measur'd back my way. 
Methinks it was tiie providence of heaven 
That stirr'd such thoughts within me. 

Hard. A heartless dolt is he who deems it 
otherwise. 
Come to my heart! thou art a noble fellow. 
And shalt be rich to boot. Aye, and thy 

steed, 
Shall in the richest pasture of the land. 
Forgetting bit and bridle, spend his days. 
No, no ; (laying his hand on Ray.) here is 

my son, my heir, my child ; 
All that I have is his ; he shall reward thee. 
Ray. My generous friend, my father. — Oh 
my heart 
Can find no words that may express its thanks. 
And here comes one who makes all utt'rance 

vain . 
Enter Elizabeth and rushes into Rayner's 
arms ; the crowd then eagerly gathers round, 
and closes upon them. 
Mar. (stepping out from the circle and looking 

upon them with emotion.) 
Yes, gather round him, kindly souls though 

rude. 
In the true artless sympatliy of nature ; 
For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd- 
In awful power, but spar'd the thunderbolt. 
When urg'd by strong temptation to the brink 
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind 
With scarce a step between ; all-pitying Heav- 
en, 
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love, 
Oft times in dark and awful visitation. 
Doth interpose, and lead the wand'rer back 
' To the straight patli, to be forever after 
A firm, undaunted, onward bearing traveller, 
Strong in humility, who swerves no more. 



THE COUNTRY INN: A COMEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN: 

Sir John Hazelwood. 
WoRSHiPTON, nepheiD to Sir John. 
Amaryllis, apoet. 
David, servant, ^-c. of the Inn. 
Will, postboy of the Inn. 
Jenkins, servant to Worshiplon. 
Piper, Fiddler, ^c. 



WOMEN : 



) nieces to Lady 



Goodbody. 



Lady Goodbody. 

Miss Martin, 

Miss Hannah Clodpate 

Dolly, maid of the Inn. 

Landlady. 

Hopkins, Lady Goodbody's maid. 

Sally. 

Scene. — A Country Inn, on one of the cross 
roads leading from the North of England 
to London. 



ACT L 

Scene I. — the kitchen of a country 

inn: DAVID and JENKINS DISCOVER- 
ED SITTING BY THE FIRE-SIDE. 

David. John Thomson, says I, why do you 
put yourself into a passion ? an angry man, 
says I, John, may be compared to three 
things. 

Jen. Yawl yaw! (ijawning very wide) how 
thicli that snow falls ! (looking to the windoic.) 

David. Well, well ! let it fall as thick as it 
pleases! — To three things, John. In the first 
place, in respect that he is very hot, and very 
restless, and all that, he may be compared to 

the boiling of a pot no, no ! that was the 

third thing. 

Jen. Never mind, man; put it first this 
time, for a variety. 

David. No, no ! let us have everything as 
it should be. In the first place then, says I, 
in respect that he is so sharp, and so fussy, 
and so bouncing, he may be compared to 
your poor bottled small-beer : and in the 
second place, in respect that he is so loud 
and violent, and so hasty, he may be com- 
pared 

Jen. Yaw ! yaw J yaw ! (yawning again 
very loud.) 

David, {very impatiently.) Tut, man ! can't 
you keep those jaws of yours together, and 
hear vrhat a body says ? 

Jen. Yaw, yaw ! Don't think because I 
34 



yawn, David, that I don't hear what you say. — 
But go on with your story : in the second 
place 

David. In the second place, says I, in re- 
spect that he is so violent and so loud, and so 
hasty, he may be compared to the letting off 
of a 

Jen. Of a train of gun-powder. 

David. No, sir; it was not to that, sir. 

Je«. To the letting off of what, then ? 

David. No matter what : I had a compari- 
son of my own, but I'll keep it to myself. 

Jen. Very well, David ; just as you please; 
for I can see now what an angry man is like, 
without your giving yourself any further 
trouble. 

David. Ay, ay ! jeer away sir! you are just 
like your poor silly affected master up stairs, 
who simpers whenever I open my mouth to 
speak, as if nobody had any sense but him- 
self 

Jen. I don't think that my master sets up 
for a wise man neither, master David ; but 
he's young and well made, and 

David. He well made, hang hini ! his un- 
cle is a better made man by half. — Ay, there 
is a gentleman for ye ! a reasonable, sensible, 
mannerly gentleman ! lie don't break in up- 
on one with his sneers and his jeers when a 
body is talking soberly and sensibly. 

Jen. To be sure lie has rather more man- 
ners about him than we can pretend to. 

David. By iny faith, he has ! and more 
sense too. What do you think he said to me 
the other day ? David, says he, you only 
want a great wig upon your head and a gown 
upon your shoulders, to make as good a pro- 
ser as many that we listen to in the pulpit or 
the bencli. Now, wan't it very condescend- 
ing in him to call such a poor unlearned man 
as me a proser, along with such great folks as 
these .'' Not that I regarded so much tlie com- 
pliment to myself, for God knows, it becom- 
eth not a mortal man to be proud, bat I love 
to hear people speak rationally and civilly. 

Jen. Yes, there is nothing like it to be sure : 
but my young master is a very good master 
to me, and he spends his money like a gen- 
tleman. 

David. I don't care a rush how he spends 
his money : they seem to be the greatest gen- 
tlemen, now-a-days, who have least money to 
spend. But if you had fallen sick on the road, 
like that poor old devil in the rose chamber, 
would your master have stopp'd so long at a 
poor Country Inn, to attend you himself like 
a sick nurse .■" I trow not ! he would have 
scamper'd off, and left yoa to follow wlien you 
could, or to die, if you had a mind to it. 

Jen. If I were old and sickly, indeed, I had 



274 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



as lief Iiavo Sir John for my master. 

Durid. 1 believe so : he is a better man 
than that skip-jack nephew of his, twenty 
times over, and a better looking nian too. I 
wonder much how lie has come to this time o' 
th' day (for lie must be near forty I guess) 
without taking a wife. 

Jen. He thinks himself happier, I suppose, 
without one. And I am sure no lady of any 
spirit or fashion would think herself happy 
with him. 

David. How so .' what kind of a man is 
he at home on his own esttite .'' 

Jen. Why, Jialf ploughman ; for he often 
enough holds his own plough of a morning, 
and can cast ye up as straight a furrow as 
any clod-footed lout in the country ; half 
priest, for he reads family prayers to his ser- 
vants every Sunday evening as devoutly as 
the vicar of the parish ; half lawyer, for there 
is never a poor silly idiot that allows himself to 
be cheated in the neighborhood who does not 
run to him about it directly, and he will 
brow-beat and out-wit half a dozen of attor- 
neys to have the goose righted again, if it 
were but of a crown's value. 

Daivd. Well, but there is nothing amiss 
in all tlii.s. 

Jen. Then his other odd ways. Dinner 
must be upon the table every day at the very 
moment he has fixed, and he will not give 
ten minutes law to the first lord of the land. 
Devilishly inconvenient that, for young fel- 
lows like me and my master. 

David. So much the better ; I commend 
him for it. 

Jc7i. Then he pretends to be hospitable, 
and entertains the first people of the country, 
and yet he is not ashamed to boast that there 
has not been a drunk man in his house since 
he was master of it. 

David. Nay, odds life ! that is being too 
particular, indeed. 

Jen. Ay, to be sure; and yet he puts 
always such an easy good hnmoured face up- 
on it, tiiat people will not call him a hunks 
for all that. One half of it I'm sure would 
have made any other man pass for a very 
curmudgeon. What has such a man to do 
with a wife, unless he could get some sober 
young lady, educated two hundred years ago, 
who has kept herself young and fresh all the 
while in some cave under ground along with 
the seven sleepers, to start up to his hand 
and say, " pray have me .' " — As for my 
master, he vv^ould remain a bachelor if he 
could ; but, we young fellows who liave only 
our persons for our patrimony, must dispose 
of tlicin in their prime, when they will letch 
the highest price. 

David. To be sure, to be sure ! Princesses 
a piece for you ! young men, now-a-days, are 
mightily puffed up in their own conceits. 
Tlicy are colts without a bridle, but they 
bite upon the bit at last. They are butter- 
flies in tlie sun, but a rainy day washes the 
lour off their wings. They sail down the 



stream very briskly, but it carries them over 

the ca-cnrtica cataract (what ye call a 

water-f;i!l ye know) at last. 

Jen. Faith, David ! you string up so many 
what do ye call 'em similitudes in your dis- 
course, there is no understanding it; you 
are just like that there poet in the green 
chamber, that writes upon the windows. 

David. He, drivling fellow ! he has not 
sense enough to make a similitude. If it 
were not for the words he contrives to make 
clink with one another at the end of every 
line, his verses would be ilittle better than 
what a body may call mere stuff. 

Enter Dolly. 

Dolly. You'll never write such good ones 
tho', for all your great wisdom, Mr. David. 

David. A}', you're a good judge to be 
sure 1 Fin sure you could not read them 
though they were printed in big letters be- 
fore your nose, hussy. You can tell us, I 
make no doubt of it, how his julep tastes, 
and how his breath smells after the garlic 
peels that he takes to lay the cold wind in 
his stomach, and how his ruffled night-cap 
becomes him too ; for you have been very 
serviceable to him of late, and not very 
sparing of your visits to his chamber of an 
evening; but as for his verses, Mrs. Doll, 
you had better be quiet cabout them.. 

Dolly. I say his verses are as pretty verses 
as any body would desire, and I don't care a 
rusli what you say about his night-cap or his 
garlic. 

David. Lord, Lord ! to hear how women 
v/ill talk about what they don't understand ! 
Let me see now if you know tiie meaning of 
the lines he has scratch'd on the middle pane 
of the north window : 

" Twas not that orient blush, that arm of snow, 
"That eye's celestial blue, which caus'd my 

woe, 
" "Twas thy exalted mind, my peace which 

stole, 
" And all thy moving sympathy of soul." 
Now, can you understand that, mistress 
madam .-' 

Dollij. I say the verses are very pretty 
verses ; and what does it signify whether one 
understands them or not .' 

David. And then upon the other pane close 

by it : 
" Give me the maid, whose bosom liigh 
" Doth often heave the tender sigh ; 
" Whose eye, suffas'd with tender care, 
" Doth often shed the soft luxurious tear." 

(To Jenkins.) Now this is Doll henself he 
means in these verses, for he came to this 
house the very day that the beggar-woman- 
stole her new stockings from the side of the 
wash-tub, and Fm sure she shed as many 
tears about them as would have wash'd them 
as white as a lily, tho' they were none of the 
cleanest neitiier, it must be confess'd. — If i 
were to write poetry 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



276 



Dolbj. If you were to write poetry ! Don't 
you remember when you made that bad metre 
for Goody Gibson's grave-stone, and all the 
parish laugh'd at it ? 

" All ye gentle Christians who pass by, 
" Upon this dumb stone cast a pitying eye ; 
" I pray you for yourselves, not me, bewail, 
"I on life's follies now have turned tail." 

And don't you remember when you went to 
church afterwards, how all the children of 
the village pointed with their fingers, and 
turn'd round tlieir beiiinds to you as you 
pass'd .'' If you were to write poetry, for- 
sooth ! 

David. Devil take you, you filthy lying 
jade ! it is well for you that I scorn to be an- 
gry with the likes of you. 

Dolly, {laugldng in his face.) 

" I pray ye for yourselves bewail, 
" For I on life have turned tail." 

{David takes up a stool and runs after her to 
cast it at her head.) O mercy ! my head, my 
head ! 

Jen. (preventing him.) Nay, David, I can't 
see a lady used ill in my presence. Con- 
sider, my good friend, a man in a passion may 
be compared to three things. 

David. Devil take your three things, and 
all the things that ever were in the world! If 
I but once get hold of her ! 

Enter Landlady. 

Landlady. What's this noise for .' are you 
all mad, to make such a disturbance and gen- 
tle-folks in the house .-' I protest, as I am a 
living woman, you make my house more hker 
a Bedlam than a sober Inn for gentle-folks to 
stop at. 

David, (still shaking his fist at Dolly.) If 1 
could get hold of her, I would dress her ! I 
would curry-comb her ! 

Landlady. Won't you have done with it 
yet.' curry-comb your horses, and let my 
maid alone. They stand in the stable, poor 
things, in dirty litter up to their bellies, while 
you sit here prating, and preaching as tho' 
you were the vicar of the parish. 

David. Must one be always attending upon 
a parcel of damn'd brutes, as tho' they were 
one's betters ? must a body's arm never have 
a moment's rest .' 

Landlady. Let thy tongue rest a while, Da- 
vid : that is the member of thy body that hast 
most reason to be tired. And as for you, 
Doll, mind your own work, and other people 
will leave you alone- Have you pluck'd the 
crows for the pigeon-pye yet, and scraped the 
maggots from the stale mutton ? well do I 
know there's ne'er a bit of all this done ; we 
shall be put to such a hurry scurry to get the 
dinner dress'd, that all the nice victuals will 
be spoil'd (Bell rings.) O lud, lud ! how they 
<io ring them bells ! Run and see what's want- 



ed, Dolly. (Exit Dolly.) This comes of 
making a noise, now ! [Exit Jenkins. 

David. The greatest noise has been of your 
own making, I'm sure. 

Landlady. O dear me ! what will this house 
come to I It will turn my poor head at last. 
Re-enter Dolly in a great hurry. 

Dolly. A coach, a coach! a coach at the 
door, and fine ladies in it too as ever my eyes 
beheld. 

Landlady. A coach say you .' that's some- 
thing indeed. I wish the stairs had been 
scower'd this morning. Run and light a fire 
in the blue chamber. 

[ExEUNTJ Landlady and Dolly severally, in 
great haste. 

David, r wonder what can bring these lady- 
folks out now in such cold weather as this. 
Have they never a fire at home to sit by, in a 
plague to them ! They'll bring as many vile 
smoking beasts witli them, as will keep my 
poor arms [Exit gr uvihling . 

Re-enter Landlady, shewing in Lady Good- 
body, Miss Martin, and Hannah, follow- 
ed by a Maid, carrying boxes, &c. 

Landlady. O la, ladies ! I am sorry the fires 
ant lit : but I have just ordered one to be lit 
in the blue cjiamber, and it will be ready im- 
mediately. I am sure your ladyships must be 
so cold ; for',it is to be sure the severest weath- 
er I ever see'd. 

Lady G. We shall warm ourselves here in 
the mean time. 

Miss Martin. What place can be so com- 
fortable in a frosty morning as a stool by h e 
kitchen fire .-' 

(Sits doicn on a stool hy the fire.) 

La?idlady. O dear, ladies ! here are chairs. 
(Sets chairs for them.) 

Lady G. (to Maid.) Here is a seat for you 
too, Hopkins, sit down by the fire. 

Hopkins. I thank you, my lady, I must look 

after the things in the coach. (Sets down the 

box, 4"C. and Exit. 

Lady G. (to Landlady.) Have you many 
travellers, ma'am, in this road ? 

Landlady. O yes, lay lady, a pretty many. 
We had a little time ago my Lady the Coun- 
tess of Postaway , and a power of fine folks 
with her. It was a mighty cold day when 
she came, madam, and she was a mighty good 
humour'd lady to be sure : she sat by the fire 
here just in that very corner as your ladyship 
does now. 

Miss Martin. It has been a highly-honour'd 
nook indeed. 

Lady G. Pray ma'am, what have you got 
in the house for dinner ? for it snows so fast 
I think it will be impossible for us to get any 
further to day. 

Landlady. O la, to be sure ! I have got, my 
lady, a nice pigeon-pye for dinner, and some 
very tender mutton. But do you know, my 
Lady Countess would dine upon nothing but a 
good dish of fried eggs and bacon, tho' we had 



276 



THE COUNTRY INN t A COMEDY. 



some very nice things in the house, I'll fissure 
you. I (lon't say, to be sure, that quality are 
all fond of the same kinds of victuals ; but 
sometimes it will so happen that pigeons will 
not be equally plump and delicate as at other 
times, let us do what we will with them ; and 
the mutton being fed upon old grass, my lady, 
will now and then be a little strong tasted or 
so. — O dear me ! if it had not been all eaten 
up two days ago, I could have given you such 
a nice turkey ! it was to be sure as great a 
beauty as ever was put upon a spit. How- 
somever, you may perhaps after all, ladies, 
prefer the eggs and bacon. 

Miss Martin. Yes, my good ma'am ; the 
eggs and bacon that may be eaten to-day will 
answer our purpose rather better than the tur- 
key that was oaten yesterday. 

Ladij G. Have you any company in the 
house ? 

Landlady. O yes, my lady, we have a good 
pleasant gentleman, who has been here these 
three days, because his servant was taken ill 
upon the road. Sir .John Hazehvood, and his 
nephew with him; and we have a strange 
kind of a gentleman who has been here these 
three weeks, just to be quiet, as he says him- 
self, and to study the nmsics, tho' I can't say 
we ever hear him play upon any thing neither. 
Howsomever, he diverts himself all day long 
after his own fashion, poor man, writing bits 
of metre upon the windows and suchlike, and 
does hariu to nobody. 

Hannah, {after gazing for a long time at the 
things ranged over the chimney.) There is a 
pair of candlesticks the very same with those 
we had in our bed-room at the last inn : look 
if they ant, the very fellows to them, cousin, 
all but the little bead round the sockets. (To 
Miss M.) 

Lady G. (to Hannah.) My good child, you 
are always observing things that nobody else 
notices. {To Miss M.) Sir John Hazehvood 
is an old acquaintance of mine ; I'll let him 
know that I am here presently. 

Enter Dolly. 

Dolly. The room is ready, ladies, and the 
fire very good. 

Lady G. We shall go to it then. Let me 
have a candle, pray ; i shall have some letters 
to seal by and by. 

Dolly. Yes, ma'am ; and mistress got some 
wax ones when the great lady was here, I'll 
bring you one of them. 

Lady G. No, no, child ! a tallow one will 
do well enough. [Exeunt Lady Goodbody, 
Miss Martin, and Hannah, Landlady conduct- 
ing them. 

Enter Will. 

Will. Yes, Doll, give her a tallow candle, 
and a stinking one too. 

Dolly. The lady seems a very good lady, 
Mr. Sauce-box ; and as to stinking can- 
dles, I would have you to know we have no 
such things in the house. 



Will. That is plaguy unlucky then, for this 
is the first time since I came to the house that 
you have been without them. — Confound the 
old stingy hypocrite ! I wish they smelt like 
carrion, for her sake. 

Dolly. What makes you so bitter against 
the poor lady ? I'm sure she is as civil a 
spoken lady as 

Will. Yes, mighty civil, truly. I hate your 
smooth-spoken people : it is licking the butter 
off other people's bread that keeps their 
tongues so well oil'd. I drove like the devil 
to get here before the snow came on ; I spared 
neither myself nor my cattle to please her, and 
what do you think I had for my pains .' 

Dolly. I can't say : it is a long stage to be 
sure. 

Will. Paltry half-a-crown, an' be hanged to 
her ! 

Dolly. But why did you take so much pains 
to please her.-" 1 never knew you do so before, 
but when you were promised a bribe for your 
trouble. 

JVill. Because I tell you she's a hypocrite, 
and would deceive Old Nick, if he were not 
as cunning as herself When she passed thro' 
Middleton she bought as many coarse stock- 
ings as would have stocked a hosier's shop ; 
and her maid told me they were all to be sent 
to her own estate to be given to the poor of 
the neighbourhood ; so, thinks I to myself, 
this must be some rich liberal lady that gives 
away money with both hands, I won't stand 
upon trifles with her, and off I set like the 
deuce. But 'tis all a cursed lie : she'll sell 
them again, I'll be bound for it, and make a 
groat of profit upon every pair. I'll be re- 
venged upon her! Hark ye, Doll; I'll give 
thee a new top-knot if thou'It help me in any 
way to be revenged upon her. 

Dolly. Nay, nay, you promised me one last 
fair. Will, and brought nie home nothing but 
a two-penny bun after all. I know you well 
enough ; so you may play your tricks off by 
yourself: I'll have nothing to do with you. 

[Exit. 

Will. What ails the wench now, I wonder ; 
ever since that there poet, as they call him, 
has been in the house, she has spoken to me 
as if I were a pair of old boots. [Exit. 

Scene II.— a parlour. 

Enter Sir John Hazlewood and Worship- 
ton. 

Sir John II. Well, Ned, here is a rich heir- 
ess unexpectedly fallen in our way ; you or I 
for her ? 

War. If women favour'd men for their mer- 
it. Sir John, I should not presume to enter 
the lists with you : but, luckily, they prefer a 
good complexion to a good understanding ; a 
well-made leg to what my grandmother used 
to call a well-order'd mind ; and a very little 
fashion to a great deal of philosophy ; which 
makes us good-for-nothing fellows come far- 



THE COUNTRY INN . A COMEDY- 



277 



ther into their good graces than wiser men 
think we are entitled to. 

Sir John H. You are very humble and very 
diffident truly ; the meaning of what you say 
being simply this, that you are a mighty hand- 
some fiellow. Well, be it so; make as much 
of your personal qualifications as you can: it 
were hard indeed if they did not stand you 
in some good account, since you and your 
lashionable brotherhood take no pains to ac- 
quire any other. 

Wor. And they will stand us in good ac- 
count, my good sir. Upon my honour, we 
treat the sex in a much fairer manner than 
you do. She who marries one of us sees what 
she gets, but he who pretends to a woman on 
the score of his mental accomplishments, holds 
out to her a most deceitful lure. A man's 
temper and opinions may change, but he al- 
ways wears the same pair of legs. 

Sir John H. There is some reason in this, I 
confess : and there is one advantage you have 
in thus tricking out your four quarters for the 
market, — they are in no danger of going off 
for less than they are worth. Your man of 
ton, as you call it, most commonly ends his 
career by marrying just such a woman as he 
deserves. 

Wor. End his career I who tJie devil would 
marry if it were not to prolong it .' A man 
may indeed sometimes be tempted to marry a 
fashionable beauty to please his vanity. 

Sir John H. Or break his heart. 

Wor. Poll, poll ! there are more people who 
die of broken heads now o'days. A man may 
sometimes marry a woman of rank to be look'd 
up to by his old friends. 

Sir John H. Or down upon by his new 
ones. 

Wor. You are crusty now. — But a rich wife 
is the only one who can really excuse a young 
fellow for taking upon himself the sober name 
of husband. 

Sir John H. If this is your opinion, you 
had better still retain the more sprightly one 
of bachelor. 

Wor. And leave the heiress to you, Sir 
John. 

Sir John H. No, Worshipton ; there is not 
a woman now existing, as the world goes, that 
would suit me ; and I verily think that here 
as I stand, with all my opinions [and habits 
about me, I would suit no woman : I must 
e'en remain as I am. 

Wor. I wish to God I could do so too : I 
should ask no better. 

Sir John H. What should hinder you, young 
man.' 

Wor. I am under the necessity of marrying : 
my circumstances oblige me to it. 

Sir John H. I am at a loss to comprehend 
the necessity you talk of. 

Wor. Will three hundred a year and a com- 
mission in the army keep a man's pocket in 
loose money, my good sir, support a groom 
and valet, a pair of riding horses, and a cur- 
ricle ? 



Sir John H. I crave your pardon, sir : these 
things being necessaries, you are perfectly 
in the right; and if you choose to impose a 
disagreeable restraint upon yourself for such 
necessaries, nobody has any right to find fault 
with you. 

Wor. Impose upon myself a restraint ! Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! pardon me ! this is rather an amus- 
ing idea of yours. 

-S^V John H. Why, you would not be base 
enough to marry a woman and neglect her. 

Wor. No, Sir John ; I should pay her as 
much attention as women of the world now 
expect, and she who is not satisfied with that 
must be a fool. 

Sir John H. Well, pray heaven you may 
find one wise enough to be satisfied with 3'ou ! 
But if you seriously mean to pay j'our ad- 
dresses to Sir Rowland's heiress, you must 
inform her of the real state of your aff"airs. 
I'll have no advantage taken of a young wo- 
man under my eye, tho' it should be for the 
interest of my family. 

Wor. I shall pretend to nothing but what 
she may be ascertained of if she lias eyes in 
her head. 

Sir John H. No, not so easily ascertained 
as you imagine. There is many a handsome 
man in the world whom nature never made 
so. Flattery has softened many a rugged vis- 
age, and lick'd many an awkward cub into 
shape ; and he who takes this method of be- 
coming a pretty fellow before marriage, is 
bound in honour to continue it, that he may 
still remain such after marriage. 

Wor. What I must I be repeating the same 
thing to her all my life long .= Tell a woman 
once in plain English that she is charming, 
and there is no danger of her forgetting it. 

Sir John H. Well, deal honourably, and I 

shall rejoice in your success. But I must 

go to the stable and give directions to my 
groom : I shall return presently. [Exit. 

Wor. (alone.) Honouralily ! yes, yes, we 
are all mighty conscientious in every thing 
that is for the interest of another. But watch 
me as you please, my good Sir John, you 
shan't find me out. What a plaguy thing it 
is to have an uncle of forty-one ! What a 
devil of an age it is ! for one has but little hope 
of a legacy from it, and it has, at the same 
time, all the cold, cautious, advice-o-iving 
spirit of three-score and ten. This Sir Row- 
land's daughter is a good scheme, upon my 
soul. He must be sickly, I think, from his 
always living at home in such a retired situa- 
tion. I dare say he'll die soon, and who knows 
but the lady may step off" too, being of a sickly 
stock. Yes, I feel a persuasion within me 
that I am born to be a lucky fellow. But 
hush ! here come the ladies. The fat aunt 
walks first, and the rich heiress follows. A 
genteel-looking woman, faith ! this is ad- 
mirable luck. But who is this awkward crea- 
ture that comes sneaking after them .' some 
humble relation, I suppose. 



278 



'i'HE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



Enter Laky Goodbooy, Miss Martin, and 
Hannah. 

Ladij G. I beg pardon if I have made any 

nii-stake; I thought Sir John Hazelvvood 

IVor. Tliere is no mistake, madam ; Sir 
Jolm will be here immediately. Permit me 
to place chairs. 

Ladij G. You are very obliging, but we have 
sat so long in a close carriage this morning, 
that we should be glad to stand a little while. 
Sir John's politeness has made him sacrifice 
his own convenience, 1 am afraid. 

Wor. 1 am sure he is well repaid in the 
honour he receives. {Tu Miss Martin.) I 
hope, ma'am, you feel no bad effects from the 
cold journey you have had .' 

Miss Martin. None at all, I thank you ; we 
have jusL felt cold enough to make a warm 
room very comfortable after it. 

Wor. What a charming disposition, thus to 
extract pleasure from uneasiness .' 

Miss Martin. The merit of finding a good 
fire comfortable after a cold winter journey, 
is one that may be claimed without much 
diffidence. 

Ladij G. Pray, sir, did you ever see such 
a heavy fall of snow come on so suddenly .' 

JVor. Really, madam, I don't recollect. 
{Turning again to Miss Martin.) But it is 
the character of true merit 

Ladij G. Pardon me, sir, you have some- 
thing of tlie family face : axe you not related 
to Sir John ? 

JVor. I have the honour to be his nephew, 
madam. (Turning again to Miss Martin.) 
I shall fall in love with rough weather for this 
day's good fortune. 

Lad II G. I suppose, sir, you are acquainted 
with the family of the Mapletofts in your 
county. 

War. 1 believe I have seen them. (Turn- 
ing again to Miss Martin, and continuing to 
speak to her with inucit, devotion.) 

Ladij G. (to Hannah.) Well, my dear, you 
and I must talk together, I find. How did 
you like the country we pass'd thro' to day ? 

Hannah. La, aunt I it is just like our own ; 
1 saw no difference. 

Lady G. You are foolish, child! isnotour's 
a flat country clothed with trees, and this a 
bare and hilly one } 

Hannah. La, I did not lookout of the coach 
windows all the way, except when we stopp'd 
at the turnpike; and I'm sure it is a little 
tiled house with a gate by the side of it, just 
like the one near our own entry ; only that 
our's has got a pear-tree on the wall, and it 
has got some dried turf piled up by the door, 
with a part of an old wheelbarrow. 

Ladij G. Well, you'll have more observa- 
tion by and bye, I hope. 

Enter Sir John Hazelwood. 

Sir John H. I am happy in the honour of 
seeing your ladyship aiul these fair ladies. 
Lady G. And we reckon ourselves particu- 



larly fortunate in meeting with you, Sir John ; 
you are very good indeed, to give up so much 
of your own accommodation to poor storm- 
bound travellers. Allow me to present my 
nieces to you. (After frescnting her nieces. )• 
It is a long time since we met. Sir John, you 
were then a mere lad, and I was not myself 
a very old woman. 

Sir John H. I remember perfectly the last 
time I had the pleasure of seeing your lady- 
ship, tho' being a bachelor still, I don't care 
to say how long it is ago. Your brother Sir 
Rowland was with you then ; I hope he is 
well. 

Lady G. He is very well : I ought to have 
introduced his daughter to you particularly. 
(Sir John going up to Miss Martin.) No, no ! 
this (pointing to Hannahj is my brother Row- 
land's daughter. She is somewhat like her 
mother, who died, as you know, at a very 
early age, leaving him but this child. 

(Vforshipton, icho is about to present loitk 
much devotion a glove to Miss Martin, which 
she had dropped, lets it fall out of his hand, 
and retiring some paces back, stares with as- 
tonishment at Hannah.) 

Sir John H. (to Hannah.) I am happy to 
have this opportunity of paying my respects 
to the daughter of my old friend. 1 hope, 
madam, you will admit of this plea for being 
better acquainted. 

Ladi/ G. (aside to Hannah.) Answer him, 
child. ' 

Haniiah. (curtsying aickicardly.) My fa- 
ther is very well, I thank you, sir. 

Miss Martin, (looking slyly at Worshipton.) 
I fancy, after all, I must pick up this glove 
myself. I am afraid some sudden indispo- 
tion 

Wor. (confusedly) I beg pardon ! I — I have 
a slight pain in my jaw-bone ; I believe it is 
the tooth-ach. 

Lady G. The tooth-ach ! how I pity you ! 
there is no pain in the world so bad. But I 
have a cure for it that 1 always carry about 
in my pocket for the good of myself and my 
friends : do swallow some drops of it ; it will 
cure you presently, (offering him aphial.) 

Wor. (retreating from her.) You are infi- 
nitely obliging, madam, but I never take any 
thing for it. 

Lady G. (foUoicing him with the phial.) 
Do take it, and hold it in your mouth for 
some time before you swallow it. It is very 
nauseous, but it will cure you. 

Wor. (still retreating.) Pray, madam, be so 
obliging as to excuse me: I cannot possibly 
swallow it. 

Lady G. (pressing it still more earnestly.) 
Indeed, indeed, it will cure you, and 1 
must positively insist upon your taking it. 

IVor. (defending himself vehemently.) Posi- 
tively then, madam, you oblige me to say — 
(breaking suddenly away.) Pest take all the 
drugs in the world ! (Aside.) 

Sir John H. You must not. Lady Good- 
body, insist on curing a man against his will: 



THE COUNTRY IINIJM : A COMEDY. 



279 



■he likes the pain perhaps : let him enjoy it. 

Wor. (returning.) Indeed, 1 am very much 
obliged to your ladyship ; I am much better 
now. Forgive my impatience ; I don't know 
what I said. 

Ladij G. I am very glad you are better, and 
I forgive you with all my heart, tho' it is a 
remedy that I have long had the greatest 
faith in, distilFd by myself from the very 
best ingredients, and has cured a great many 
people, I assure you. (To Sir John.) So 
you took this lady for Sir Rowland's daugh- 
ter .'' (pointing to Miss Martin.) Do you see 
no traces in her countenance of my sister and 
Colonel Martin r She lost both her parents 
early, and she has ever since been my child. 

Sir John H. You are happy in having such 
a daughter. 

Lady G. I am so : she is a very good girl, 
and has many excellent qualities, which 
young women now-a-days do but rarely pos- 
sess. 

Sir John H. I dare say she is a most amia- 
ble companion, whom you would be ver'y 
unwilling to part with. 

Lady G. Nay, Sir John, I am not so selfish 
neither, but that I should willingly give her 
up to a good husband. 

Miss Martin, (aside to I^ady Goodbody.) 
Bless me, ma'am, why will you do this .'' you 
know I can't bear it. (Aloud to Sir John.) 
You must not trust Lady Goodbody's account 
of me; for if she thought size necessary to 
make a woman perfect, it would be difficult 
to persuade her that J am not six feet high. 

Sir John U. Excuse me, ma'am, I have 
always trusted to Lady Goodbody's opinions, 
and have never felt more inclination to do 
so than at this moment. 

Lady G. She always behaves like a fool 
when she is praised, and, excepting this, I 
don't know a fault that she has. 

(Enter a Servant, announcing dinner.) 

(To Miss Martin.) Go before, my dear, 
and place my chair as you know I like 
it. [Exit Miss Martin, folloiced by Sir John 
leading out Lady Goodbody.) 

IFor. (looking askance at Hannah, and 
then going i/p to her with an unwilling shrug.) 

Permit me to have the honour 

[Exit, handing her out. 



ACT n. 
Scene I. — lady goodbody, miss mar- 
tin, AND HANNAH, SIR JOHN HAZEL- 
WOOD, WOHSHIPTON, AND AMARYLLIS, 
DISCOVERED SITTING BY A TABLE, 
WITH WINE AND GLASSES, &C. BEFORE 
THEM. 

Lady G. But indeed, my dear Sir John, 
you ought to marry. 

Sir John H. Indeed, my dear Lady Good- 
bod\% I can't see that I am in duty bound so 
to do. 



Lady G. Ah, but you are tho' ! It would 
have made your good worthy grandmother 
so happy to have seen children of yours 
growing up to preserve the honours of the 
family . 

Sir John H. It is too late now to think of 
pleasing my grandmother after she has been 
twenty years in her grave : your ladyship 
must offer some other argument to convince 
me. 

Lady G. You owe it to your country, then : 
all familes who have good fortunes and good 
blood in their veins, should be kept up for 
the sake of their country. Is not every body 
sorry when a house of this kind becomes ex- 
tinct.-' 

Sir John H. If I thought my estates would 
cease to bear corn and hay upon them in pos- 
session of a diffijrent family, I should marry 
to-morrow for the good of the country, most 
certainly. I should be very sorry to be sure 
to make every body sorry for my want of 
heirs : but I remember when my neighbour 
Squire V/heelbarrow lost his only son, there 
was as much merry-making, and as much ale 
drank at the very next fair, upon his own 
estate too, as if nobody had cared a rush about 
the matter. I believe 3'ou must produce 
some stronger reason still, my lady. 

If'or. Yes, do keep it up, madam ! don't 
let him off so easily. 

Lady G. (gayly.) I'or the sake of the la- 
dies then, Sir John, you ought to be a bach- 
elor no longer. 

JVor. Now your ladyship attacks him from 
a strong- post. 

JlmaryUis. Now, madam, you touch the 
finest chord of the soul's harmony. 

Sir John H. She does ; I allow it. But I 
contend that I am of more service to the ladies 
m 111}' present state than 1 could possibly be in 
any other. Have I not danced at our country 
balls with all the neglected damsels who 
could find no partners to lead them uut for 
these ten years past .'' and do I not still serve 
as a forlorn hope to half the desponding 
maidens and unsettled widows of the west- 
riding of Yorkshire ,'' 

IVor. (to Lady Goodbody.) Upon my hon- 
our, madam, he tells you serious truth as to 
the neglected damsels ; for he has danced with 
them so often, that it would be no longer the 
fashion for any otlv^r kind of damsels to dance 
with him, if he had not too good an estate to 
be rejected. 

Lady G. Your services to the ladies are 
too general. Sir John ; to make one deserv- 
ing woman happy is the best way of shewing 
your respect for them. 

Sir John H. And what lady, m}' good 
madam, v.'ill expect happiness from an elder- 
ly rusticated bachelor ? 

Lady G. No sensible woman dislikes an 
agreeable man because he may be past the 
heyday of his life. Mj niece here (pointing 
to Miss Martin) has often said to her giddy 
companions, that an agreeable man of forty 



aso 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY; 



is preferable to the frivolous young men of 
the world that one meets with every where 
now-a-days. 

Miss Martin. You would oblige me very 
much, my dear madam, if you would speak 
your own sentiments, without doing me the 
honour to make me so much wiser than I 
pretend to be. 

Sir John H. If your ladyship pleases, we 
shall drop this subject. I am obliged to you 
for your friendly advice, but it is not in my 
power to profit by it ; for I cannot, for the 
mere love of being married, yoke myself to 
a bad wife ; and I am so capricious and so 
strange with my old-rooted habits, that I 
really don't deserve to have a good one. 

Wor. That is the very case with him, 
madam ; he must have, forsooth, such a wo- 
man as the sun never beheld : a woman of 
wit who holds her tongue ; a good house- 
wife who teazes nobody with her economy ; 
and a woman who knows the world, and yet 
prefers retirement in the country, and his 
honour's amiable conversation, to every thing 

in it. May I be if ever I require more of 

any woman than to be well dress'd and look 
pretty as long as I live. 

Lady G. (to Sir John.) Do you tolerate 
oalhs in your presence..' 

Sir John H. I don't at least encourage 
tliem by my example. 

IVor. How should you, my good sir .' you 
bury yourself so much in the country, you 
scarcely know what oaths are in use. 

Sir John H. That is not my reason for ab- 
staining from them, however : if ever I 
should betake myself to swearing, I shall 
give myself very little concern about the 
fashion of the oath ;, ods bodikins will do well 
enough for me, and lack-a-da}'sy forniy wife, 
if I should ever be happy enough, following 
Lady Goodljody's advice, to have one. But 
Mr. Amaryllis are you silent all this while .' 
it is surely your turn next to tell us what 
kind of a woman you prefer : some very re- 
fined being, undoubtedly. 

Amaryllis. Beauty, wit, fashion, and econ- 
omy are prized by most men. Sir John ; but 
let the maid whose tender sensibility, whose 
soft delicacy, whose sympathy of soul gently 
animates her countenance, be my portion, 
and every other thing I can dispense with. 

Miss Martin. You three gentlemen, at 
least, are so far lucky in your tastes, that you 
are in no danger of ever becoming rivals. 

Lady G. I must own, however. Sir John's 
choice appears to me to be the most reasona- 
ble, and not so difficult to be met with nei- 
ther. My nieces spend many lonely months 
in tlie country with me, and Miss Martin 
prefers it, tho' she is naturally of a gay dis- 
position ; why should we not believt> tiien 
that there .ire many young women in the 
world of tho same character .'' 

Miss Martin, {aside to Lady Goodbody.) 
For heaven's sake, ma'am, give this up ! 
you'll put me beside myself 



Lady G. (aside to Miss Martin.) You're 
a fool, and don't know when one is serving 
you. 

Sir John H. (to Miss Martin.) There is 
nothing can be said in your praise, madam, 
that will not be readily credited ; but to pre- 
fer country retirement, and a bachelor past 
the noon of his days, is a singular taste for a 
young and gay woman. 

Miss Martin. Perhaps it is so : but unlucki- 
ly it is one to which I make not the smallest 
pretensions. I love the amusements of town 
to a folly ; retirement is irksome to me ; and 

I hate a capricious old (stopping short as 

if shocked at herself, loith great embarrass- 
ment.) 

Lady G. (very angrily.) Miss Martin : how 
can you be so perverse ! 

Sir John.H. Pray, my dear madam, let us 
not fall out about this foolish jest which we 
have kept up too long. Here comes a strange 
original old fellow, who is in the custom of 
amusing us a little after dinner, but he for- 
gets that there are ladies with us at present. 

Lady G. Pray let him come, we shall be 
glad to hear him talk a little. 

Enter David. 

David (to Sir John.) A good afternoon to 
your honour. 

Sir John H. How do you do, my honest 
friend David ? 

David. As well as a dry mouth and an 
empty head will allow a poor silly fellow like 
me to be. 

Sir John H. Ay, David, wise men always 
speak modestly of themselves, tho' they don't 
insist upon every body believing them. 
Here is something for thy dry mouth ; you 
must drink a bumper to the ladies' healths. 

David. Such ladies as these deserve 
bumpers a-piece to their healths. 

Sir John H. So they do; and here's the 
first for you. (Filling him a glass.) 

David, (drinking.) My humble respects to 
your Ladyship. (To Lady Goodbody.) 

Lady G. I'm proud of the respect of so 
wise a man, Mr. David. 

David. O Lord, madam, why should I be 
held in any account ? What tho' a body 
may have a better understanding of things, 
and a better way of setting his words in or- 
der, as it were, than another; 'tis all but the 
gift of God, and why should a body be proud 
of it? 

Miss Martin. But folks will be proud of 
any gift, Mr. David, unless they be endued, 
like you, with the rare gift of modesty also. 

David. Faith, young lady, you're in the 
rightsof it there. Here's to your very good 
health : here's to your secret inclinations. 

Miss Martin. I thank you ; but you are 
waggish as well as wise. 

David. O yes, madam ! nothing comes 
amiss to me. After 1 have been talking, 
mehapofthe Pope, or the Emperor, or the 
land-tax, or the solemn league and covenant, 



THE COUNTRY INN. A COMEDl^- 



281 



I can just go and break my jests among the 
women as if I were no better than one of 
themselves. 

Miss Martin. How wonderfully conde- 
scending to the poor silly women ! 

David. O yes, madam, I have no pride 
about me : I can just talk like one of them- 
selves. {Drinking to Hannah.) My service 
to you, young lady. (Raising his voice.) Yes, 
yes, commend me to the women : they don't 
envy any little wit that one may have. But 
conscience, I care for the face of no man ! 
(Looking at Ama.Ty\lis.) Some of them, me- 
hap, have read more books than me, and can 
tell you the Latin for one word, and the Greek 
for another, and the likes o' that; but for 
good deep sense, and a knack at a compari- 
son, I'll defy the best of them all. Ods dick- 
ens ! I could find ye out a similitude for the 
sun, moon, and stars, in the paring of a black 
pudding's end. (Lajighing without, and Will's 
licad serM peeping at the door ichich David had 
left a-jar.) 

Sir John H. What's that .' 

David. By my troth, I've forgot my er- 
rand ! I have brought the poor girl who sings 
so w'ell to divert yo^ur honours, and she is 
waiting at the door with some ill-manner'd 
companions along with her. 

Lady G. Pray bring her in, we shall be 
glad to have a song from her. (David goes 
to the door, and leading in Sally, shuts it in 
VfilVs face icith great indignation.) 

■ David, (to Sally.) Come in, hussey, and 
let those sneering varlets amuse themselves. 
Sing the ladies one of your new songs. 

Sir John H. I believe they would rather 
have one of your olcl ones. 

Sally. Will you please to have the Sailor's 
Courtship to the Tinker's Daughter; or, 
" My tatter'd Hose and clouted Shoon .' " 

Sir Jqhn H. I rather think the clouted 
shoon will do best. 

SONG. 

The' richer swains thy love pursue, 
In Sunday geer, and bonnets new; 
And ev'ry fair before thee lay 
Their silken gifts with colours gay ; 
They love thee not, alas ! so well 
As one who sighs and dares not tell ; 
[ Who haunts thy dwelUng, night and noon 
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon. 

I grieve not for my wayward lot, 
, My empty folds, my roofless cot ; 
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown, 
Nor alter'd looks, nor friendship flown ; 
Nor yet my dog with lanken si'des, 
Who by his master still abides ; 
But how will Nan prefer my boon. 
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon ! 

Miss Martin. She has a charming voice, 
and sings with some skills 

Sir John H. Who tausht you these songs, 
Sally.' 

35 



Sally. My father, sir ; he's a fid 

David, (pinching her arm aside.) Fiddler 
an't genteel ; say he's a musicianer. 

Sally. He's a musicianer, sir. (Worship- 
ton laughs irnpertinenily, and stares at Sal- 
ly, who keeps retiring in confusion as he 
still continues to stare, and at last runs 
out.) 

David. Is the sheep-faced fool gone ? 

[Exit cfter her in great indignation. 

Wor. (to Amaryllis.) Let us go and coax 
her to return. 

[Exit Worshipton and Amaryllis. 

Sir John H. She is very young, and we 
must excuse her. 

Lady G. There are more people here than 
her who ought to plead the same excuse. 
Miss Martin, you have behaved very strange- 
ly, and can only be pardoned on account of 
your youth. 

Miss Martin. I have done so many foolish 
things for six-and-twenty years past, that 
you are really very good, my dear madam, 
to pardon me on that score. 

Lady G. What do you mean ? what do you 
mean, child, by calling yourself older than 
you are ? 

Miss Martin. I have been of age these five 
years, and most people, 1 believe, will call 
that six-and-twenty. 

Sir John H. Your servant, ladies, we shall 
meet again at the tea-Uble. [Exit. 

Lady G. Very well, very well. Miss Mar- 
tin ! since you will be six-and-twenty, tho' 
you know well enough you want two months 
and a half of it, with all my heart. But 
allow me to tell you, a maiden of that age 
should look pretty sharply about her, if she 
would not still remain a lonely maiden all 
her life. 

Miss Martin. I am sure it were better to 
remain a lonely maiden all my life than take 
up with such pitiful company as some of your 
good matrons do, and rather more respecta- 
ble too. 

Lady G. No, child ; a married woman is 
always more respectable than a single one, 
let her be married to whom she will. 

Miss Martin. Indeed ! Can one give to 
another what he is not possess'd of himself.'' 
Can a woman receive any additional respect- 
ability because some drivelling, insignificant 
man, whom all the world despises, has put a 
wedding-ring upon her finger 1 — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
But I suppose a good settlement is the hon- 
our your Ladyship means. 

Lady G. No, indeed : I say, every married 
woman is more respectable than a single one, 
independently of all settlements. What else 
do you think would have induced me, with 
the fortune I had, to marry Sir Benjamin 
Goodbody .-' for his person was disagreeable, 
and his best friends admitted he was no con- 
jurer. Don't mistake me, however, I mean 
no disrespect to his memory. He was a very 
good man, and I have lamented him sincere- 
ly. And what else do you tliink would have 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



induced my cousin Frances to give her hand 
to tliat poor puny creature, Mr. Percwinkle, 
but to j)lace herself in this respectable state. 

Miss Martin. Ha ! ha ! ha I 1 did not ex- 
pect to hear such strong examples quoted 
from my own family. 

Ludij G. Don't make a jest of it : I speak 
seriously, and you ought to think seriously. 

Mins Martin. 1 think very seriously, that, 
if you would not pester nie continually with 
attempts to make up a match for me with 
every man of fortune that falls in our way, I 
should be very happy, my dear aunt, to live 
still with you, and take care of your declin- 
ing- years, in return for the tenderness and 
attention you have bestowed on my youth. 
Why would you put me away from you.'' are 
you thed of my company ? 

Lady G. Oh, Mary ! talk not of taking 
care of my declining years : 1 should be 
contented, to be crippled or bed-ridden all 
my life, could I but see you happily and 
honourably married. 

Miss Martin, (kissing Lady Goodbody's 
hand tenderly.) My dear aunt ! pardon my 
petulance and eagerness. I will strive to 
please you more : but do give up the present 
pursuit, I beseech you. 

Lady G. No, no, my dear ! 1 love you too 
well for that. But I am unfit to say any thing 
to you at present. [Exit. 

Miss Martin, (looking after her.) My dear, 
kind, perverse aunt ! you will be the death of 
me. (7'(> Hannah.) Come, my dear, we'll re- 
tire to our rooms too. What have you been 
thinking of all this time .' 

Hannah. I have just been wondering wheth- 
er my grandmother was christened Hannah 
or Haniiabella. 

Miss Martin. What puts that into your 
head ? 

Hannah. Because Mr. Worshipton said at 
dinner, when my aunt call'd me Hannah, that 
she should have call'd me Hannabella, which 
is a prettier name. 

Miss Martin. Mr. Worshipton has been 
amusing himself. — Oh heigh ho ! I wish we 
were at home again, in our old mansion in 
the north. 

Enter Hopkins. 

Hopkins, (gently putting her hand on Miss 
Martin's shoulder). My dear child ! pardon 
the liberty : I still feel for you the atlection 
of a dry nurse : what is the matter with you .' 

Miss Martin. Still the old grievance, my 
dear Hopkins ; my aunt trying to make up a 
match for me. 

Hopkins, Ay, poor good lady : she can't 
leave that alone for the soul of her. She 
would make u]) matches at home for every 
country girl in the neighbourhood if she could. 
I even believe, if 1 had not been once married 
already, which she thinks sufficient for the 
credit of any woman, she would still be for 
trying to make up a match for my old crazy 
bones, God help me ! — But don't let it vex 



you thus, my dear ma'am : I liave brought 
you sometliingthat will please and divert you. 

Miss Martin. What is that, Hopkins .? 

Hopkins. A letter from my little boy whom 
my lady puts to school, written with his own 
hand, dear little fellow ! and the first he ever 
wrote in his life. It begins " Dear Mother," 
and all as pretty as any other letter. 

Miss Martin. I thank you, my good Hoppy ! 
I shall indeed have a pleasure in reading it. 
Go with me to my room, and show it me 
there : it does my ill-humour good to see thee 
so happy ;. I will strive to think less of my 
own concerns. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a small room leading to 

OTHER ROOMS IN THE HOUSE: JEN- 
KINS DISCOVERED STANDING AT ONE 
OF THE DOORS, BEHIND WHICH HANG 
GREAT COATS, &C., BECKONING TO 
SOMEBODY WHO DOES NOT APPEAR ; 
PRESENTLY 

Enters Worshipton, stepping upon tiptoe. 

Wor. Thou hast some intelligence for me.' 
(In a loiD voice.) 

Jen. Yes ; the old lady and her woman 
are coming this ^vay presently to go to Miss 
Martin's room, and the heiress will follow 
them as soon as she can find a glove that she 
is searching for. I heard this just now as I 
listen'd at her door ; so conceal yourself here 
amongst these great coats lor a i'ew minutes, 
and you may way-lay her as she pjisses. 

(Speaking in. a half whisper .) 

Wor. Is my uncle still reading in the next 
chamber .•' , 

Jen. I believe so. (Going to a door at the 
bottom of the stage, and listening.) He is just 
now rising to go away. (Worshipton s/trmA's 
back, and, is going hastily out.) No, no ! don't 
be afraid ; he is gone oiit the other -way to 
visit old Rycroft, 1 suppose. , 

fVor. (speaking in a loud voice.) Good then : 
we shall have the coast clear : let us hide our- 
selves. Thou must remain wifli me, for I 
may have occasion for thee. 

(Hide themselves amongst the great coats.) 

Enter Lady Goodbody and Hopkins, talking 
as they enter. 

Lady G. (in rather a low voire.) Very true, 
Hopkins, and if my god-daughter turns out 
an industrious girl. Til add something to what 
she saves, myself, to get her a husband; for 
you know she is not very sightly. 

Hopkins, (in a loud voice, having lingered 
some paces behind to pick up something she has 
dropt.) Ay, there is plenty of husbands to be 
had my Lady,tlio' a girl be ever so homely, if 
she have but money enough. [Exeunt Lady 
Goodbody and Hopkins. 

IFor. (behind the door.) Ay, they are talking 
of their heiress now. They are devilishly 
suspicious of designs upon her, but we'll 
jockey them for all that. Ha ! here comes 
the game 



THE COUNTRY INN i A COMEDY. 



Enter Hannah, (and WoRSHipxo'Ncomes from 
his concealment.) 

Hannah. O la ! are you there, Mr. Wor- 
shipton? I saw nobody here but the great 
coats hanging by tiie wall. 

fVor. You are not offended, I hope, that a 
great coat should be turned into something 
that can speak to you, and gaze upon you, 
and admire you, Miss Clodpate. 

{Ogling her.) 

Hannah. La, now ! it is so droll ! 

Je7i. {peeping from his hiding-place.) Droll 
enough, by my faith ! 

Wor. I have been waiting here concealed a 
long time for this happiness ; for your aunt 
is so jealous I can find no opportunity of 
speaking to you. She knows well enougii 
it is impossible to behold such beauty and 

attraction without pardon me : you 

know very well what I would say to you if 1 
durst. 

Hannah. La, no ! how should I know. Do 
you mean that I am beautiful, and what d'ye 
call it .= 

Wor. Indeed I do : your beauty must be 
admired, tho' your prudent aunt does all she 
can to conceal it. 

Hannah. La, now ! you say so because my 
hair lias been allowed to grow so long, and 
aunt and every body says that my ears are the 
prettiest thing about me. But it an't aunt's 
fault: I shall have it cut when we go to town. 
{Putting her hair behind her ears awkwardly 
with her fingers, and beginning to look rather 
brisk.) 

Wor. {looking at them with affected adviira- 
tion.) O, beautiful indeed ! 

Jen. {peeping from his hiding-place.) Ay, 
I thought the beauty lay hid under some snug 
covert or other : it was devilishly well cou- 
ceal'd, by my faith ! 

Hannah. La, now ! did you think they 
were as pretty as they are ? 

Wor. I must confess I should have expect- 
ed to find them somewhat of a longer shape. 
But conceal them for pity's sake, my charm- 
ing Hannah : this is dangerous. 

Hannah. Hannabella, you know. 

Wor. O yes, Hannabella I mean. It is 
dangerous to look upon so much beauty, when 
one at the same time thinks of the extraordi- 
nary accomplishments of your mind. 

Hannah. La, now ! who has told you that 
I got by heart six whole parts of the hundred 
and nineteentii psalm, word for word, in the 
space of two mornings only, and every body 
said it was very extraordinary .•' Somebody 
has told it you, I know. 

Wor. No, nobod}' ; I just found it out my- 
self. 

Hannah. La, now ! that is so wonderful ! 
Aunt herself said that my cousin Martin could 
not have done it so well. 

IVor. Your cousin Martin ! would any one 
comj)are you together.' Don't you know 
how much every body is delighted with you ? 



Hannah. La, no ! nobody tells me any thing 
about it. 

Wor. Indeed ! that is very extraordinary ; 
but they have their own ends in that. Don't 
they watch you, and keep always somebody 
near you .-* 

Hannah. To be sure my aunt often desires 
my cousin to take care of me when we go out. 

Wor. I thought so. — Ah I my charming 
Hannabella ! {Sighs two or three times, hut she 
continues staring vacantly, without taking any 
notice of it.) 

Jen. {aside to Worshipton as he walks near 
his hiding place, rather at a loss what to do.) 
Give a good heavy grunt, sir, and she'll 
ask what's the matter with you : mere sigh- 
ing is no more to her than the blowing of 
your nose. 

Wor. {ogling Hannah and givino- a groan.) 
Oh ! oh! 

Hannah. La! what is the matter with you .' 
have you the stomach ach .' Rly aunt can 
cure that. 

Wor. Nay, my dear Hannabella, it is your- 
self that must cure me. I have got the heart- 
ach. It is your, pity I must implore. {Kneel- 
ing and taking her hand.) 

Hannah. O, sure now I to see you kneeling 
so — it is so droll ! I don't know what to say, 
it is so droll. 

Wor. Say that you will be mine, and make 
me happy ; there is nothing a lover can do, 
that I will not do to please you. 

Hannah. Miss Languish's lover madc^songs 
upon her. 

Wor. L41-do so too, or any tliinsf : but don't 
let 3'our aunt know that I have spoken to you, 
she would be so angry. 

Hannah. O no ! she is very fond of people 
being married. 

Wor. Yes, but she will be angry at us tho' ; 
so don't tell her, nor Miss Martin, nor any 
body a word of the matter. Do promise this, 
my charming Hannabella! my life depends 
upon it. {Kneeling again, and taking her 
hand.) O don't pull away from me this fair 
liand ! 

Hannah. La ! I'm sure I an't pulling it 
away. 

Wor. {starting up suddenly from his knees.) 
There's somebody coming. {Runs out and 
leaves Hannah strangely bewildered, and not 
knowing where to run.) 

Hanruih. O dear, dear ! what shall I do .■' 

Enter HaPKiNS. 

Hopkins. What is the matter, Miss Clod- 
pate .'' My Lady sent me to see what is be- 
come of you : are you frightened for any thing, 
that you keep standing here in such a strange 
manner .' 

Hannah. Ola, no! but I just thought some- 
how, that you would think there was some- 
body with me. (Hopkins looks abmd the room 
susjnciously.) O no : you need not look for 
any body : those are only great coats by the 



284 



THE COUNTRY INN ; A COMEDY. 



wall, you see; and Mr. Worshipton's an't 
there, yu bi.f^, fur Iii^ has got five capes to 
it, and the cloth is of a much lighter colour, 
and it has got more button-holes to it too than 
an}' body's else in the house. 

Hopkins, (still staring strangely about.) Mr. 
Worshipton's ! was he here .'' 

Hannah. La, no ! an't I just telling you 
that he an't here .-' 

Hopkins, (aside.) Well this is droll enough 
too — but no, no ! it can't be any thing nei- 
ther, (aloud.) Your aunt is impatient for 
you. Miss Clodpate. 

Hanruih. O la ! I'm going to her directly, 
[Exeunt Hannah and Hopkins. 

Jen. (coming forward from his hiding 
place, and shrugging tip his shoulders as he 
looks after Hannah.) This is the price my 
master is willing to pay for his curricle and 
his horses. 

Re-enter Worshipton. 

Wor. 1 think we have done pretty well, 
Jenkins, for the first onset. 

Jen. Yes to be sure, sir ; but — but — 

IVor. But what, Jenkins.' 

Jai. Pardon my freedoih, sir : — but 
don't you think she is rather too great a fool 
for 

Wor. Poll ! poll 1 poll ! she is all the better 
for that : it is a great advantage, and one that 
I am certain of. 

Jen. As to the certainty of it nobody 
will dispute that, I believe. 

Wor. Don't trouble thy head about it, if 
I'm satisfied. And remember the caution I 
gave you to say nothing, in the way of ask- 
ing questions at the servants, to lead them to 
suspect what we are about. 

Jen. Don't be afraid of that, sir : I can't 
if I would ; for the man-servant that attends 
them is a country booby, who has not been 
in the family a fortnight, and knows nothing 
at all about it; and my Lady's woman, with 
her staunch old-fashion'd notions, has taken 
such a dislike to me that I hate to have any 
thing to say to her. 

Wor. So much the better. Yes, yes ! things 
will go swimmingly on : I shall soon jockey 
them all. [Exeunt. 

Scene IIL — a chamber all litter- 
ed OVER WITH BOOKS, PAPERS, OLD 
COATS, SHOES, &C. &C. AMARVLLIS 
DISCOVERED SITTING ETA TABLE WITH 
A PEN IN HIS HAND, AND I'APER BE- 
FORE HIM. AFTER MUSING SOME TIME, 
HE WRITES AND THEN BLOTS OUT 
WHAT HE HAS WRITTEN. 

Amaryllis, (to hiriisclf.) This won't do: 
it does not sound well. What a teasing thing 
it is, when on(; has got a beautiful line, to be 
stopp'd thus for want of a good rhyme to 
couple with it! (repeating with great enipha- 
sis and gesticulation.) 



" On thy idea^ pinions let me fly, 
" High-soarir.g Fancy, far above the sky : 
"Beyond the starry sphere towering sublime, 
" Where vulgar thought hath never dar'd to — 

No, climb does not please me : it is too heavy 
a motion for thought. (Musing and rubbing 
his forehead.) 

" Beyond all thought inspiring vulgar rhyme." 

No,that won't do neither. (Musing again and 
biting his nails.) Pest take it ! if I should bite 
my fingers to the quick it won't come to me. 
(Jl gentle knock' at the door.) Who's tliere .'' 
(in an angry voice.) 

Dolly, (half opening the door.) 'Tis I, sir: 
does your fire want coals.' 

Jlmaryllis. (in a softened voice.) O, it is you, 
Dolly. Come in and see, my good girl. Enter 
Dolly, and pretends to be busy in putting the 
room in order, whilst Amaryllis takes his pen 
and begins several times to write, but as often 
lays it doton again, looking at the same time 
over his shoulder at her.) Plague take it! she 
puts it all out of my head. (Leans his arm on 
the table for some time, still looking frequently 
about to her.) Faith, I believe she has a sneak- 
ing kindness for me, she finds always so ma- 
ny little things to do in my room. She's a 
good, rosy, tight girl, on my soul ' (/hide.) 
No, my pretty Dolly, that book is too heavy 
for you : I'll put it in its place. (Getting up 
with great animation and running to her.) 

Dolly. O no, sir! I'll do it very well my- 
self. I just thought as how your room would 

be in confusion, and so 

Jimaryllis. And so you came to put my 
head into confusion too, you little baggage. 
Dolly. O sure ! I hope not, sir. 
Jlmaryllis. You're a sly gipsy, Dolly. But 
you think of me sometimes then, eh ? (Pinch- 
ing her car and patting her check.) 

Wor. (7«/i/(0?i«.) Amaryllis ! Amaryllis ! are 
you at home, Amaryllis ? 
Amaryllis runs back to his table again, and, pre- 
tends to be meriting, without attending to the 
inkstand and several books lohich he over- 
sets in his haste, whilst Dolly makes her es- 
cape by the opposite door just as Worshipton 
enters.) 

Wor. I heard you were at home, so I made 
bold to enter. What, writing so composedly 
after all this devil of a noise .' 

Jlmaryllis. (looking up with affected apathy.) 
Yes, I believe the cat has been playing her 
gambols amongst my books. 

Wor. It may have been the cat, to be sure, 
for those creatures have witchcraft about 
them, and can do many wonderful things o' 
winter nights, as my old nurse used to tell 
me ; but if you had told me it was half a doz- 
en of dogs that made such a noise, I should 
scarcely have believed you. Cats too can put 
on what forms they please, I've been told; and 
tho' they generally assume that of an old wo- 
man, yours has been more civil to j'ou, I be- 
lieve, in taking the more agreeable form of a 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



285 



young one. I caught a glimpse of her, Ama- 
ryllis, as she fled into the other chamber. 

Jl'maryUis. Poh ! Dolly has been putting 
my books in order: is she gone .'' {Pretending 
to look round for her.) 

Wor. Well, well, never mind it! I came 
on a little business to you, else I should have 
been sorry to disturb you ;. for I know well 
enougii you are always employed about some 
sublime thing or otlier. 

jimuryltis. You are too flattering. — You 
come upon business .'' 

JVor. Yes, Amaryllis, and you are so good- 
natured, that I shan't make any preamble a- 
bout it. I want to please a lady, or make a 
lady believe I am pleased with her, which is 
the same thing, you know ; and I want to 
borrow one of your poems that I may present 
it to her as written in praise of herself. How- 
ever, she is not very refined in her taste, any 
common-place thing will do. 

Jimarijllis. I am infinitely flatter'd, Mr. 
Worshipton, that you should apply to me for 
a common-place thing. Since this is the 
style of poetry that suits you at present, I 
can't help thinking you might have succeed- 
ed pretty well in writing it yourself. 

Wor. Poh, now ! you don't take my mean- 
ing. I meant any little piece that has cost 
you little time or study, will do very well for 
my purpose : I should be very sorry to take 
one of your good ones. 

Jlmaryllls. Sir, 1 have bestowed some time 
and study upon all my pieces, and should be 
rather unwilling to think I had any other to 
off'er you. 

Wor. How perverse you are in misunder- 
standing me ! The best poet that ever lived 
has a best and a worst poem ; and I only make 
the humble request to have one of your least 
sublime ones. Do, my dear friend, look thro' 
your budget. Many of your works, 1 know, 
are master-pieces, and I have had a great de- 
sire for a long time to hear you read some of 
them, but was unwilling to disturb you of an 
evening. 

AmarijUis. (softened.) I believe I must find 
something for you. Will you have a love- 
song or a sonnet ? 

JVor. Any of them will do : she does not 
know the one from the other. 

AnarijlUs. {taking papers from his table.) 
Here are verses addressed to Delia playing on 
the lute. 

Wor. (taking it.) This will do very well ; 
for tho' 1 don't believe she plays upon the 
lute, it will be civil to suppose that she does, 
till we really know the contrary . 

Jimarijllis. You speak lightly of the lady, 
Worshipton, for a lover. 

Wor. I am not so refined in my ideas of 
these matters as you are, Amaryllis. I am a 
man ofthe world, and that character can't be 
supported long on a slender fortune : the lady 
is very rich. — But mum: not a word of this 
to any one. 

AmarijU.is. You may depend upon me. — 



But you said you should like to hear me read 
some of my poems. I am not very busy at 
present ; 1 will indulge you with pleasure. 

War. You are extremely obliging. — For a 
man pretty well received by women of the 
first circles, as I believe without vanity I may 
say of myself, it would be a silly trick to mar- 
ry at all,'did not iny circumstances compel 
me to it ; but I shall make such a choice of a 
wife as shall make me pass as much as pos- 
sible for a single man still. 

Jimarijllis. {impatiently.) Very well ! — 1 
have a poem here which I think you will be 
pleased with. 

Wor. You are very good indeed. — But you 
see how I am circumstanced : 1 must have 
fortune. — How foolish it was in the Mar- 
chioness of Edgemore to think I was going to 
elope with Lady Susan ! 1 never paid more 
than common attention to her in my life. 
It is impossible for me to marry without for- 
tune. 

Jlmarjjllis. {still more impatient.) Well that 
is all very trvie.— ^But here is a pastoral which 
you will not, I hope, find unworthy your 
attention, if you will have the goodness to 
give it me. 

Wor. You are infinitely obliging ; but I am 
extremely sorry my time will not allow me 
so great a pleasure. 

.imaryllis. Then I'll read you this elegy, 
which is shorter. 

Wor. I'm really obliged to you, but 

.Amaryllis. Or perhaps you would liko to 
hear my grand ode, which is in i\\e next 
room. {Runs to fetch it.) 

Wor. {alone.) How that man pesters one 
with his damned vanity. Shall I make my 
escape while he is gone.' No, no ! that would 
be too rude : I'll try another way of getting 
off". — Worshipton ! Worshipton ! 

{Calling outioitli a feigned voice.) 

Re-enter Amaryllis with his poem in his 

hciUd. 

Amaryllis. Now, Worshipton, I'll show 
you what 1 believe, without vanity, I may 
call hitting off" the figurative and sublime 
style in poetry, pretty well. 

Wor. I beg pardon : I am extremely mor- 
tified, but I cannot possibly stay to hear it 
now, for Sir John waits without, calling for 
me, and I must positively go to him. Did 
you not hear hira call very loud .? 

AmaryUis. O, if Sir John is without we 
can ask him in, and he shall hear it too. 

{Going towards the door.) 

Wor. {stopping him eagerly.) No, no, my 
good friend, not now. if you please ; it is im- 
possible : we shall hear you another time. 

Amaryllis. I shall be at home all the eve- 
ning ; shall I expect you half an hour hence .' 

War. No, not quite so soon, I thank you; 
we shall be engaged. But we shall have 
great pleasure very soon — good bye to you. 
{Hurrying away.) 

Amaryllis, {slopping him.) In an hour 



286 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



then, perhaps, I may expect you : I shall be 
at leisure all the evening. 

W^or. Really you are most exceedingly 
obliging, but I am afraid it will not be in our 
power. Excuse my haste, I am very much 
disappointed. {Going hastily.) 

Jimaryllis . {stopping him again.) "Nay, 
surely after supper you can contrive to come 
to me. 

Wor. O, no, no ! one has enough to do 
then to digest the horrible eating of this dia- 
bolical inn, without surfeiting one's self — I 
beg pardon ! without giving one's self the 

pleasure, I meant to say, of excuse me ! 

excuse me ! I must not keep him waiting 
any longer ; you heard how loud he call'd 
me : I am extremely disappointed indeed. 
[Exit, breaking from him in great haste. 
Amaryllis, {looking after him angrily.) 
Well, let him go, pitiful fellow ! he is so ta- 
ken up with himself and his own little paltry 
vanity, he has neither capacity nor taste to 
relish high poetry. [Exit very majestically. 



ACT III. 



Scene T. — a dark narrow passage- 
room, WITH THE DOOR OF AN ADJOIN- 
INCt CHAMBER LEFT OPEN, IN WHICH 
ARE DISCOVERED LADY GOODBODY, 
MISS MARTIN, AND HANNaIi. 

Enter Sir John Hazelwoou and Worship- 
ton. 

Sir John H. The light is gone out : let us 
wait here till David brings us another candle. 
Ha ! is it fair to wait here .-' 

{Perceiving the ladies.) 

Lady G. {inthin to Miss Martin.) Indeed, 
Mary, you ought to consider yourself as very 
fortunate in having the opportunity of pleas- 
ing an agreeable man. 

Miss Martin, {within.) Mr. Worshipton do 
you mean .'' 

Wor. {in a low voice, .stealing eagerly near- 
er the door.) They are talking of me, dear 
creatures ; let us hear what they have to say 
upon this subject. 

Sir John H. Fye, Worshipton ! would you 
turn eve-dropper.'' 

Lady G. {within.) No, you know well 
enough it is Sir John I mean. 

Sir John H. {drawing also near the door.) 
Ha ! talking of me too. Well, if people will 
converse with their doors open, there is no 
hel[) for it. 

Miss Martin, {within.) How should 1 know 
who your Ladyship means by an agreeable 
man .' 

Lady G. You may know at least who I do 
not mean ; for that poor frivolous fine gen- 
tleman can be agreeable to nobody. 

Wor. {aside to himself.) Old hag ! her 
face is as senseless and as coarse as a red-top- 
ped January turnip. I 



Lady G. {within.) Sir John is a man that 
any woman might like. He is a man of for- 
tune. 

Miss Martin, {within.) So is our neighbovu-, 
Squire Numbscull. 

Lady G. {within.) Fye, child ! Sir John is 
a well made man, and — 

Miss Martin, {within.) And so 1 must like 
him for not being crooked. 

Lady G. {within.) You are both perverse 
and foolish. Sir John — 

Miss Martin, {within earnestly.) If you 
have any love for me, aunt, drop this subject 
forever : the very mention of his name is 
distressing to me. 

Sir John H. {in a loio voice, turning from 
the door quickly.) You need not be so vehe- 
ment, fair lady : I have no intention to give 
you the smallest trouble. 

Lady G. {within.) I leave you to your 
own humours, Miss Martin ; you have got 
beyond all bearing with your nonsense. 

[Exit into an inner chamher. 

Sir John H. I thought her sensible, I con- 
fess ; but how confoundedly pert and flippant 
she has become. 

{Aside an the front of the stage.) 

Wor. {going to him conceitedly.) You seem 
disturbed, Sir John. 

Sir John H. Not a jot ! not a jot, truly ! 
It rather amuses me. 

Enter David with a candle, holding his spread 
hand before it as if to prevent it from blowing 
out. 

David. I should have brought 'the candle 
sooner, but I have but a short memory, your 
honour {to Sir John) and a man with a short 
memory, is like a — 

Sir John H. No matter what he's like : 
go on with the light, and we'll follow thee. 
[Exit David, {looking very foolish.) That 
fellow has become nauseous with his similies. 
{.Is they arc going out Worshipton stops Sir 
John.) 

Wor. They speak again ; do stop here a 
moment. 

Hannah, {unthin.) Would it grieve you, 
cousin, if my aunt were to propose Mr. Wor- 
shipton to you instead of Sir John .'' 

Miss Martin, {within.) No, my dear, not at 
all. 

Wor. {in a low voice.) You see I am in fa- 
vour with the niece, Sir John, tho' the aunt 
gives the preference to you. 

Hannah, {within.) I thougiit as much, for 
he's a very pretty gentleman, isn't he .' 

Miss Martin, {within) He is even so. 

Hannah, {within.) And he dresses so pret- 
ty and new fashion'd, don't he.'' 

Miss Martin, {inithin.) It is very true. 

Hannah, {toithin.) And then he talks so 
clever, like the fine captain that run off with 
Miss Money. He is as clever every bit, 
altho' he don't swear so much; an't he, 
Mary ? 

Miss Martin, (toithin.) I make no doubt of 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



287 



It. And had Lady Goodbody laid her snare 
to catch Jiim for me, it would not have griev- 
ed me at all. 

JVor. (in triumph.) Do you hear that, Sir 
John .' 

Hannah, (icithin.) It would not have griev- 
ed you at all ? 

Miss Martin, (tcitkin.) No, my dear ; for 
with all these precious qualities of his, his 
good or bad opinion is of no consequence to 
me. I could bear such a creature to suppose 
I have designs upon him, without being un- 
easy about the matter. (Walking up and 
dozen disturbed, and then talking to herself.) 
To appear to Sir John Hazelwood as a female 
fortune-hunter, endeavouring to draw in a 
wealthy husband for her own convenience — 
O, it is not to be endured ! To be degraded 
in the eyes of the verj' man whose good opin- 
ion I should most value — it is enough to 
make one distracted ! (Worshipton retires be- 
hind Sir John very foolishly, who remains fix- 
ed to the spot with surprise .) 

Hannah, (icithin.) Do you love Sir John.' 

Miss Martin, (within.) No, my dear, I am 
not weak enough to do that, when I know I 
shall never be beloved again. Could I have 
gained his good opinion, I should have been 
contented, v/ithout pretending to his heart. 

' Sir John H. (vehemently.) But thou shall 
have both, by this blessed hour ! 

Miss Martin, (within.) But now, as my 
aunt carries on her attack, I don't know liow 
to maintain my credit : I shall be compelled 
to be downrightly rude to him. 

Sir John H. Ay, very right, very right, my 
brave girl I — It is a glorious girl ! I adore her 
for her spirit. 

Hannah, (icithin.) It gets very cold: I'll 
shut the door now, for the smoke is all gone. 

Miss Martin, (tvithin.) What, has the door 
been standing open all this while .'' 

Hannah, (within.) Didn't you see me open 
it to let out the smoke ? 

Miss Martin, (within ) I am so harassed 
and vexed I don't see what is before mine 
eyes : shut it directly. 

(Hannah shuts the door.) 

Sir John H. We are dark now, but I hear 
David's footsteps in the passage. Poor fel- 
low ! I have affronted him. David ! friend 
David! (Calling.) 

Re-enter David with a light, looking very sour. 

David. What do you want, sir .-' 
Sir John H. To be lighted to our rooms, 
my good Dav^d. — Naj-, don't look so grave, 
man. I spoke rather shortly to you, indeed, 
because I was thinking of something else at 
the time ; but you are too wise, my good Da- 
vid, to mind such small trifles as these. 

David, {with his face brightening.) Lord 
love you, sir! i have both given and taken 
short words ere now ; that is nothing to me. 
But I wish I may remember to call your 
honour in the morning, for as I was a saying, 
a man with a short memory 



Sir John H. Yes, yes, let us have it all 
now, as we go along; and put this under 
your pillow to prevent you from over-sleep- 
ing yourself, my friend David. 

(Giving him money.) 

David. O Lord, sir, I can't refuse any 
thing your honour offers me, but there is no 
occasion for this. 

Sir John H. Put it in your pocket, man : 
there is a virtue in it. (They move on; Sir 
John follmving David, and Worsiiipton kick- 
ing his shins from side to side, with affected 
carelessness, as he goes after them.) 

Sir John H. (archly turning as he goes 
out.) Thou'rt making a strange noise with 
thy feet, Worshipton. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — worshipton's chamber. 

Enter Worshipton, calling as he enters. 

Wor. Jenkins ! Jenkins ! 

Jen. (without.) Here, sir. 

Enter Jekkins in his great coat and boots. 

IVor. Are you ready to set off for this same 
license ? 

Jen. Yes, sir, in a moment. 

Wor. Well, make good speed then : there 
is no time to lose. Remember all the direc- 
tions and precautions I have given you : and 
think as thou goest along that thou art work- 
ing for thyself as well as me, for thy services 
shall be nobly rewarded. Thou shalt have a 
slice out of .Sir Rowland that will fatten thee 
up by and by into a man of some consequence. 
Good speed to thee, my good Jenkins ! and 
use thy discretion in every thing. — Hast thou 
bespoke music for our serenade ? 

Je7i. I have found a sorry fiddler, who has 
got but three strings to his violin, for the 
fourth is supplied by a bit of pack-thread ; 
and an old Highland piper, who has stopped 
here on his way from London to Lochaber ; 
besides a bear-leader, who is going about the 
country with his hurdy-gurdy. 

IFor. Well, well ! if they make but noise 
enough it will do. But the most important 
thing is to have the chaise in waiting behind 
the old. mill, that while the music is dinning 
in the ears of the old lady and her woman, 
we may convey our prize to it without being 
suspected. Have you engaged Will in our 
interest .' and does he say the road between 
this and Middleton church is now passable .'' 

Jen. You may depend upon him, sir, and 
the road too. 

Wor. Thou art sure I may depend upon 
him .' 

Jen. Sure of it, sir. He will do much, he 
says, to serve your honour, but he'll go thro' 
fire and water to vex the old beldame. Lady 
Goodbody he means : he owes her a turn, I 
believe, for a half-crown she scrubbed off him 
when she paid him for the last stage he drove 
her. 

Wor. This is fortunate. Where is Sir John 
just now ? 



288 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY i 



Jen. With old Rycroft : he always gives 
hi)n his draughts with his own hand, lest 
it should he neglected. 

War. Then \ may go to the stable without 
danger, and have some conversation with 
Will myself. By the bye, I have never visited 
that old sick devil yet ; do you tell him that I 
inquire for him sometimes '■! 

Jenkins. 1 do, sir, and Rycroft don't expect 
more from you. 

Wor. Very well, that is enough. — But we 
lose time. Here is money for thee : set off 
innnediately. 

[Jenkins receives money and Exit. 

Wor. {(done.) If this succeeds now, it will 
be a devilish lucky turn in my fortune ; for 1 
should have found it a difficult matter to have 
lived nmch longer upon credit. (Musing a 
while.) I wish after all it were a less expen- 
sive thing to be a man of fashion. Gold, as 
the proverb says, may be bought too dear. — 
No, no : it can't be bought too dear by one 
who knows how to spend it with spirit. 1 
shall, at least, have every thing my own way, 
for she is a great fool ; that is one good thing 
we are sure of. [Exit. 

Scene III. — a passage or outer room. 

Enter Sir Joiifi Hazelwood, looking eagerly 
to the opposite side of the stage. 

Sir John H. Here comes a la,dy, but not the 
one I'm in wait for. 

Enter Hannah. 

Sir John H. G odd morning. Miss Clodpate, 
I hope yor.r morning dreams have not been 
unpleasant : you are early up. 

Hannah. I mistook the hour when the clock 
struck, for it is a queer-sounding clock they 
have here, and don't strike at all like the one 
we have at home. 

Sir John If. Good young ladies like every 
tiling at home best. 

Hannah. Yes indeed I do, for it was made 
by Mr. Pendlam, the great clock-maker in 
London. Isn't he clock-maker to the king.' 

Sir John H. Indeed I don't know ma'am. 
— But what pretty gloves you have got. Miss 
Clodpate ; aren't they of a particular colour .-' 

Hannah. La ! do you think them pretty ? 
My aunt says they are not pretty , but 1 think 
they are, and that was the reason why I bought 
them. 

'S'r John JJ. And an excellent one too, 
madam. Pray when did you see your worthy 
faV'uT, Sir Rowland.'' I hope he enjoys as 
good spirits as he used to do long ago? 

Hannali. I saw him the twenty-fourth of 
last September, and he was very well, I thank 
you, sir. 

Sir John H. Docs he never leave home 
now .' 

Hannah. O, there is Miss Martin coming; 
I must go away. 

Sir John H. And why must you go .' 

Hannah. Because my aunt says in case 

you should have any thing to say to her. 



Sir John H. You are perfectly right to do 
whatever your aunt desires you . 

[Exit Hannah. 

Enter Miss Martin by the opposite side, Sir 
John looking at her with great satisfaction as 
she approaches. She curtsies shghtly, con- 
tinuing to pass on. 

Sir John H. Good morning, madam. 

Miss Martin. Good morning, sir. 

Sir John H. Do you pass me so hastily, 
Miss Martin .'' To run away so were enough 
to put it into a vain person's head to believe 
himself dangerous. 

Miss Martin. Perhaps then, yours is not 
without that idea. 

Sir John H. Yet I ought not to be flatter'd 
by it neither ; for women, it is said, fly from 
small dangers, and encounter the greater 
more willingly. 

Miss Martin. Yes, Sir John, we are the re- 
verse of the men in this respect, which ac- 
counts likewise for your detaining me here. 

Sir John H. Nay, in this you are mistaken : 
it is no mean danger that proves my boldness 
at this moment. {Placing himself between her 
and the door gayly.) 

Miss Martin. Your boldness indeed is ob- 
vious enough, whatever I may think of your 
courage. — But I have no particular desire to 
pass this way : I can find out my way to the 
breakfast-room by another door, if you have 
any fancy for standing sentry at this post. 

( Turning to go by another door.') 

Sir John H. {quitting the door.) And you 
will leave me thus scornfully. There is an 
old proverb I could repeat about woman's 
scorn. 

Miss Martin. I know your old proverb per- 
fectly well, Sir John; and I am obliged to 
you for mentioning it at present, since it sets 
me completely at libert}-, without ill manners, 
to say, I am heartily tired of this parley. 

[Exit jrith affected carelessness. 

Sir John H. Well, this is strange enough ! 
she will charm me, 1 believe, with every 
tiling that is disagreeable to me : for I dislike 
a gay woman, I can't endure a talking one, 
and these kind of snip-snap answers I detest. 
— But I have been too particular in iny no- 
tions about these matters : I have always 
been too severe upon the women : — I verily 
believe they are better kind of creatures than 

I took them for. Softly, however ! I will 

observe her well before I declare myself 

[Exit. 

Enter Amaryllis, with a coat iir his hand, and 
dressed in his night-gown. 

Amariillls {alone.) What a plague is the 
matter with the string of my bell this morning 
that it won't ring ! 1 wish my Dolly would 
come and brush this coat for me. {Listening.) 
1 hear her voice coming up stairs ; she'll be 
here immediately. — This girl becomes every 
day more pleasing and more necessary to me. 
Ever since I entered this house she has aired 



THE COUNTRY INN: A COMEDY. 



my linen, set my slippers by the fire in a 
morning ( or, good soul 1 she heard me com 
plain that I am troubled with a chillness in 
my feet), and done all those little kindly of- 
fices about me with such a native grace as 
beggars all refinement. — But what, indeed, 
are the embellishments of artful manners to 
the graces of simple unadorned nature .'' — She 
is at hand. — Dolly ! my sweet Dolly ! 

{Calling to her.) 

Dolly, (without.) Coming, sir. 

Amaryllis. There is something of natural 
harmony in the very tones of her voice. 

Dolly, (without, in a sharp angry key.) Get 
down to the kitchen, you vile abominable cur ! 
Do you think I have nothing to do but mop 
the stairs after your dirty feet ? Get down 
to the kitchen with you ! (The holding of a 
dog heard loithout.) Yes, yes, howl away 
there I I'll break every bone in your skin, if 
you come this way again, that I will. 

Enter Dolly. 

Jimarijllis. Why Dolly, my good girl, this 
is rather an unpretty way of talking. 

Dolly. 'Tis but the dog, sir. Vile, nasty 
hound ! he is worser than his master. 

Amaryllis. Than his master .' 

Dolly. Yes, than his master, Mr. Worship- 
ton. His dog's tricks are like his own, for 
he don't care what trouble he gives to a poor 
servant. 

Ainaryllis. So you don't love Mr. Wor- 
shipton, Dolly .'' Should you have treated a 
dog of mine so, eh ? (pinching her cheek kind- 
ly^ You smile at that question, you gipsy ; I 
know you would not. 

Dolly. I should indeed have had some more 
regard for the brute, so as lie had belonged to 
your honour. 

Amaryllis. 1 thank you, my sweet girl ; but 
you ought to speak gently to every thing. — 
And don't call me " your honour." 1 dont 
like to hear my pretty Dolly call me so. 

Dolly. O daisy ! what shall I call you then .' 

Amaryllis. Call me Sir, or Mr. Amaryllis, 
or when you would be very kind to me, my 
dear Mr. Amaryllis. 

Dolly. My dear Mr. Amarals. 

Amaryllis. Amaryllis is my name, Dolly. 

Dolly. Yes, yes ! I know your name is 
Amarals. 

Amaryllis. No, child, Amaryllis. — But 
you'll pronounce it better by and by. And 
if my Dolly will take this coat and brush it 
for me. when she brings it to my chamber 
again, I have something to say to her in pri- 
vate which will not, I hope, be displeasing to 
her. [Exit, looking tenderly at her. 

Dolly, (alone.) What can he have to say to 
me now .'' Ods dickens ! I'll wager he means 
to buy me a new gown. — Faith ! he means 
some other thing, perhaps. Well, if he were 
not so much taken up with his books, and his 
papers, and his poetry, and such trash, I should 
like mightily to keep a maid of mj^ own, and 
be call'd Mrs. Amarals. — I'll bring it to this 
36 



if I can. (Going out icith the coat.) He shall 
brush his own coat then, howsomever. 

[Exit. 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — moon-light: a field or 

SMALL court BEHIND THE INN, AND 
EVERY THING COVERED WITH SNOW. 

Enter Fiddler, Piper, and Hurdy-Gurdy- 
Man, each with his instrument. 

Fiddler. How devilish cold 'tis ! 'tis well we 
are fortified with roast beef and brandy, friend : 
didn't I tell you we should want it all .' 

(To Piper.) 
Piper. Very true : but you would not keep 
a lady of family and condition waiting till we 
cramm'd ourselves, Maister John. 

Hardy- Gar dy-Man. Dat would be impolite 
in verite. 

Fiddler. Damn me ! if I would play with 
an empty stomach to the best lady in Chris- 
tendom What the devil makes her fancy 
that our music will sound better in this here 
cold field than within doors in such a night as 
this .' 1 likes to be snug myself, and I never 
likes to put any one to hardship. 

Piper. Why thou art a good-humour'd, 
kindly-hearted fellow, .John ; I must say that 
for thee. But this is the true way for all love 
music, di na yc ken .' Out among the high 
rocks, or under a castle-wall, man ! — But 
now, as we are all to play thegether,as it were 
in a concert (taking out his snuff-box, and 
rapping on the lid icilh an air of importance,) 
di na ye think, gentlemen, it will be expedi- 
ent to inquire first, whether we can play the 
same tunes or not, as I suppose none of us 
trouble ourselves with music-books, and sick 
like. 

Fiddler. I can play a pretty many tunes, 
Piper, but none of them all goes so well on 
my fiddle as Ally Croaker. 

Piper. Ay that is good enough in town to 
play to an orange-woman under a lamp-post,or 
sick like; but this is a lady of family, man, and 
she must have something above the vulcrar. 

Fiddler. Play any thing you please, then : 
it will be all the same thing in my day's work 
whetlier I play one thing or another. 

Piper. Day's work, man! you talk about 
playing on your fiddle as a cobler would do 
about mending of shoes. No, no! we'll do 
the thing decently and creditably. 

Hurdy-Gurdy-Man. Suppose we do give 
her de little chanson d 'amour ^ 
Piper. Song a moor \ what's that .■' 
Hardy- Giirdy- Man. I do play it very pret- 
ty on my hurdy-gurdy. 

Piper. Ay, you may play it well enough, 
perhaps, for your Italian foreigners, or sick 
like, that don't know any better ; but any 
body that has been in Lochabar, good troth ! 
would count it no better than jargon, man. 
Hurdy-Gurdy-Man. But 1 do say v/hen de 



290 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



Jeoples of my country hear your pipe, dey 
o so. (Stopping /lis curs, and mimicking one 
who runs away.) And 1 do say dat I play 
more better music dan you, one, two, ten, 
twe nty times over. 

Piper. Lord help ye, man ! it's lang sin 
pride began ; will ye compare yourself to the 
Laird of McRory's piper. 

Fiddler. A great affair to be sure of the 
Laird of McRory's piper.' 

Piper. You mun eat a bow o' meal before 
you be like him tho'. 

Fiddler. Thank God ! I liave more christ- 
ian-like victuals to eat 

Piper. Better than you or your grandfa- 
ther eitiier, ha' been glad o' worse fare. 

Fiddler. Yes, that may be the case in your 
country, like enough where, unless it be a 
lousy tailor, or sick like {mimicking him,) 
few of you taste any thing tliat has ever had 
life in it. 

Piper. Sir, an' it were not for respe ct to 
the lady yonder (pointing to the window ichere 
Hannah appears,) I would run this dirk into 
that nasty bulk of yours, and let out some of 
tlie plum-pudding you pretend to be stuffed 
with, you swine that you are I 

Fiddler. O never mind the lady, Master 
McRory ; I'll box you for two-pence. {Put- 
ting himself in a boxing posture.) 

Piper. Done, sir, for half , the money. {Pul- 
ing himself in the same posture.) 

Hurdy-Gurdij-Man. Dese men very fool- 
ish: my hurdy-gurdy and I be but strangers 
in dis country : we will keep out of de way. 
(Retiring to a corner of the stage.) 

Enter Worshipton and Jenkins. 

Wor. Hold, hold! what is all this for.? I 
hired yoxi to give us harmony and not discord, 
and be damn'd to you ! 

Fiddler. You shall have that too, an' please 
your honour. 

Wor. But I want no more than I bargain- 
ed for, so keep this for some other occasion, 
if you please. 

Fiddler, (giving up.) Well, it don't signi- 
fy, I can pick a quarrel with him another 
firae. 

Piper, (to Fiddler.) Since the gentleman de- 
sires it, sir, I shall let you alone for this time ; 
but damn you, sir, if you say a word against 
my country again. Til make you a man of 
no country at all. {They take up their in- 
struments, and go to different sides of the 
stage, still making signs of defiance to one 
another. 

Wor. (going to the windoio.) Are you there, 
my charming love .' 

Hannah. Yes, I have been here some 
time. 

Wor. I could not come sooner. — Remem- 
ber your promise ; and in the meantime what 
music shall they play .' 

Hannah. Just let lliem play a concert. 
Wor. A concert. — Well, gentlemen, you 
are desired to play a concert. 



Fiddler. That is to say, we arc all to play 
together. What shall we play ? {to Piper.) 
Shall we play the Lady's Fancy ? 

Piper. A custock for the Lady's Fancy. 

Fiddler. The Soldier's Delight then .'' 

Piper. A for the Soldier's Delight ! a. 

tunc for a two-penny alehouse. 

Hardy- Gurdy-Man. Don't mind him {to 
Fiddler.) he be washpish: you and 1 will i)lay 
Ma cliere Amie. 

Piper. Well, well ! play what you please, 
both of you, but I'll play the battle of Killy 
Cranky, and hang me, if your "Ah Me" will 
be heard any more than the chirping of a 
cricket in the hearth. {They leg in to play, 
and the Piper drowns them both with his noise.) 

Wor. {stopping his ears.) Give over I give 
over ! bless my soul ! the squeaking of a 
bundled pigs and the sow-driver at their heels 
is nothing to this. {Going to the window.) — 
Well, my love, how did you like tlie con- 
cert .'' 

Hannah, (above.) Very well, I thank you. 

Wor. (aside.) A lady of precious taste ! 
{aside.) But would it not be better to hear 
them one at a time ? Which of them shall I 
desire to play first .? {aloud.) 

Haimah. {above.) Bid that fiddler there, 
without the breeches, play me a tunc on his 
bagpipes. 

Piper. 1 must let you to wit, madam, that 
I am no fiddler, and the meanest man of all 
the McRorys would scorn to be a fiddler. 
My father before me was piper to the laird, 
and my grandfather was piper to the High- 
land Watch at the siege of Quibec ; and if 
he had not piped long and well to them, 
madam, there wad ha' been lessFrench blood 
spilt that day, let me tell you that, madam. 

Wor. My good Mr. McRory, she meant 
you no offence ; I assure you she respects 
your grandfather very much. Do oblige us 
with a tune on your bagpipes. (Piper makes 
a profoundboiD, and standing by the side scene, 
half concealed, plays a Highland pee-bro.) 

Wor. {1,0 Piper.) I thank you, sir; j'our 
music is excellent : it is both martial and 
plaintive. — But where is our little warbler.' — 
Ha ! here she comes. 

Enter Sallv. 

Come, my good girl, can you sing the song 
I gave you .' 
Sally. Yes, sir. 
Wor. Let us have it then. 

SONG. 

Ah, Celia. beauteous, heavenly maid ! 

Ill pity to thy shepherd's heart, 
Thus by lliy fatal charms betray'd, 

The gentle balm of hope impart. 

Ah ! give me hope in accents sweet, 
Sweet as thy lute's melodious strain; 

I'll lay my laurels at thy feet, 

And bless the hour that gave me pain. 

Wor. Very well sung, indeed. (To Hannah.) 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



291 



Don't you think, my charming Hannah, we 
have had music enough ;' 

Hannah. Just as you please : I don't care. 
IVor. I'll send them off then, (to Jenkins, 
who comes forward.) Take them all to the 
otJier side of the house, and make them play 
under Miss Martin's window. You iinder- 
stand. (Aside.) 

Jenkins. Yes, sir. [Exenut Jenkins and 
music, and enter Will, who retires to a comer of 
the stage. 

Wor. (to Hannah.) How did you like my 
song, Hannabella .' 

Hannah. Very well, but la ! it an't the song 
you promised to make upon me : it don't say 
one word about either you or I. 

Wor. Ay, but it does tho' ; for you are 
Celia, and 1 am the shepherd, and that is the 
fashion of love-songs. 

Hannah. Well, tiiat is so droll ! 

Wor. So it is. — And now, my dearest crea- 
ture, fulfil your promise, and come over the 
window to me ; the postchaise is waiting for 
us. 

Hannah. La ! is it the yellow chaise that 
stands commonly in the yard .' 

Wor. I can't tell you what colour it is, but 
it carries us off to be married. Come over the 
window, my love. 

Hannah. La! I didn't promise to go over 
the window : Aunt says they never do good 
who get over the window to be married : I 
only promised to run off with you. 

Wor. But that is just the same thing. Do 
come now; there is no time to be lost. You 
have only to set your foot upon that stone 
which jets out from the wall, and you are in 
my arms in an instant. 

Hannah. No, no ! old aunt Gertrude went 
over the window to be married, and she fell 
and broke her leg, and never was married at 
all. 

Wor. Bat you can't break your leg here, 
the wall is so low. — Come, come, there is no 
time to lose. 

Hannah. O no, no ! I know I shall come to 
harm. 

Wor. Do, my dearest Hannabella, there is 
not the least danger. (In a coaxing tone of 
voice.) 

Hannah. O no, no ! aunt Gertrude broke 
her leg, and I'm sure I shall break mine too. 

Wor. (losing all 'patience.) Damn your 
aunt Gertrude, and all the fools of the fami- 
ly ! I'll give you leave to cut my head off if 
you fall. 

Hannah. I'll go away, 1 won't stay here to 
be damned. (Whimpering, and turning from 
the window.) 

Wor. Forgive me, my love; don't go away: I'll 
do any thing to please you. — What the devil 
shall we do .' 

Will, (coming forward.) Don't press the 
lady to get over the window, sir ; I'll find a 
way of getting her out at the door, which I 
shall explain to you afterwards. 



Wor. But her chamber enters thro' the old 
lady's ; so how can you get her out .' 

Will. By unkennelling the old lady, to be 
sure ; I'll do that fast enough. 

Wor. (to Hannah.) Then wait in your 
chamber, my dearest creature, till we come 
for you. (Aside as he goes off with Will.) — 
What a devil of a fool it is I who could have 
thought she would have been so obstinate. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a small hall, with the 

DOORS OF SEVERAL ROOMS OPENING 
INTO IT. 

Enter Worshipton, and Will with a candle 
and burnt piper in his hand. 

Will, (thrusting tho burnt paper under one 
of the doors.) Now, my good Lady Charity ! 
I'll be even with you for the half-crown you 
saved off me. — She'll smell the burning soon 
enough, I warrant ye ; for your notable la- 
dies, like her, poke their noses into every 
corner, and get out of bed at every little 
noise, to see that no rat be running off with 
one of their old shoes. — Do you go, please 
your honour, and wait at that door there, 
which is the only one that opens to the stair 
case, and I'll send the young lady to you im- 
mediately. You told her our plan .'' 

Wor. Yes, I returned to the window, and 
told her. 

Will. I have procured a trusty lad to drive 
in my place, and you'll find every thing as 
you ordered it. 

Wor. I thank you, my good fellow : I'll 
make your fortune for this. 

Will. I know your honour is a noble-minded 
gentleman. [Exit Worshipton. 

Will (alone, listening at the door.) Yes, yes, 
she smells it no w : I hear her stirring. (Bawl- 
ing very loud.) Fire ! fire ! fire ! "The house 
is on fire I Fire ! fire ! fire ! 

Enter Lady Goodbody ia her night-clothes, 
followed by Hannah. 

Lady G. Mercy on us ! how strong I smell 
it here ! Where are all the servants .'' Call 
every body up. fExiT Hannah by the stair- 
case door.) Is that the way out .'' Stay, Han- 
nah, and take me with you. 

Will. Your Ladyship had better take hold 
of my arm, and I'll take you safe out. 

Lady G. Do take me out ! do take me out ! 
Fire ! fire ! fire ! Is there nobody coming to 
us .' (Takes hold ofWill's arm, icho staggers 
along with her first to one side of the stage, and 
then to the other.) Why, what are you about, 
fellow .'' I'll get better along by myself. 

Will. Never fear ! never fear ! I'll warrant 
I'll take care of your Ladyship. 

TLarfy G. Why don't you go faster then ? 
Let go my arm, I say . Is the fellow mad or 
drunk .' 

Will. I'll take care of your Ladyship. Old 
ladies are often a stumbling : talie good care 
of your feet, madam. 



292 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY 



Ladi/ (r. Look to your own feet, fool ! and 
let me alone. The man's distracted ! let go 
my arm, 1 say. (She .struggles to get free : he 
keeps fast hold of her, and hobbles zig-zag over 
the stage, she all the while calling out fire, till 
they get to the stair-case door, where lie falls 
down with his bodij right across the door to 
"prevent its opening, as if he were in a fit.) Heav- 
en preserve us ! the man's in a lit, and the 
door won't open. Who's there .' Fire ! fire ! 
fire! 

Enter Landlady and Dolly. 

Landladij. Fire in my hou.se, mercy on us I 
how stronir It smells here. O lud ! lud ! I'm 
a ruin'd woman ! Where can it have broke 
out .'■ O lud ! lud : 

Dolly. Lack-a-daisy ! I smell it over head. 
I'll pawn my life it is in the north garret, where 
my new gown lies. O dear ! O dear ! 

Landlady {running distractedly about.) Fire ! 
fire ! Water ! water ! will nobody assist a 
poor ruined woman .'' Oh, all my good furni- 
ture ! Oh, my new dimity bed I 

Enter Sir John Hazelwood in his night-gown. 

Sir John H. Confound your new dimity bed. 
Where is Miss Martin ? 

Lady G. O my child ! my child ! where is 
my child .' 

Sir Jolui H. I'll go for her. — But here she 
comes ; all's well now ; let it burn as it will. 
(Enter Miss Martin, and Sir John, runs eager- 
ly up to her, but stops short suddenly.) My 
old sick fellow is in bed, and can't stir a limb 
to save himself; I must carry him out in my 
arms. (Going hastily •out, bat is stopped by 
Amaryllis, iclio enters grotesquely dressed in 
his nightcap.) 

Amaryllis. Where are you going .' where 
has it broke out .' 

Landlady. O lud, sir ! it is broke out up 
stairs, and all my goods will be burnt. Who 
will assist a poor ruin'd woman .'' 

Amaryllis. There is no fire up stairs, I as- 
sure you, but I smell it here. 

Landlady. Then it is down stairs, and we 
shall all be burnt before we can get out. 
(They all crowd about the staircase door.) 
Raise that great fellow there. 

Lady G. He's in a strong hysterick fit, 

Dolly. Give him a kick 'o the guts, and that 
will cure his extericks. 

Sir .John U. A hasty remedy, gentle maid- 
en. (Sir John and Amaryllis lift Will neck 
and heels from the door.) 

Enter David from the stair-case. 

David. Who stopped the door there ? what's 
all this bustle for ? 

Landlady. O, David, David ! isn't there 
fire below stairs, David .'' 

David. Yes, as much as will roast an egg, 
if you blow it well. 

Landlady. Nay, but I'm sure the house is 
on fire, for I dreamt this very night that Pom- 
pey's whelp was gnawing a hole in my apron. 



and that bodes me no good. I'll go and look 
all over the house. Come, Doll. 

[Exeunt Landlady and Dolly. 

Sir John H. (to Amaryllis.) We had bet- 
ter search too. 

[Exeunt Sir John and Amaryllis. 

David. What's the matter witli Will.' 

Lady G. He's in a strong fit 

David. I never knew him in one before : 
I'm afraid he's dead, poor fellow ! What will 
become of old Grizel his mother now .-' He 
gave the best half of his earnings to keep her 
out of the workhouse. 

Lady G. Did he indeed ! good young man ! 
Run and get assistance for him. But, hap- 
pen what will, old Grizel shan't go to the 
workhouse, for I'll take care of her myself. 
Haste, good David ! run for the apothecary 
directly. (Exit David.) Go, Mary, fetch 
me some drops from my room. (Exit Miss 
Martin.) Poor young man I 

Will, (getting up, and falling on his knees to 
Lady Goodbody.) O, my good blessed lady ! 
I'm a Jew, and a Turk, and a Judas Iscariot. I 
have played the knave with you all this while 
out of spite. If I had not been a beast I might 
have known that you were a main good, chari- 
table lady. — But I'll fetch her back again : 
I'll run to the world's end to serve you. 

Lady G. You are raving, I fear : who will 
you fetch back ? 

Will. The great heiress, your niece, madam, 
who is run off to marry Mr. Worshipton, and 
all by my cursed contrivance too. 

Lady G. The great heiress, my niece ' 

U^ill. Yes, my lady; your niece. Miss Clod- 
pate : but I'll fetch her back again, tho' every 
bone in my skin should be broken. 

Lady G. This is strange, indeed ! (Con- 
sidering a while.) No, no, young man, don't 
go after her : she is of age, and may uo as 
she pleases. 

Will. Ods my life, you are the best good 
lady alive ! I'll run and tell my old mother 
what a lady you are. 

Lady G. Nay, I'll go and see her myself; 
I may be able to make her situation more com- 
fortable, perhaps. 

Will, (bursting into tears.) Thank you, ma- 
dam ! Heaven knows I thank you ! but as 
long as I have health and these two hands, I'll 
take care of her who took care of me before 
I could take care of myself. 

Lady G. You are a good young man, I see, 
iind I have a great mind to take care of you 
both. She has brought you soberly up, I hope, 
and taught you to read your Bible. 

Will. O Lord, madam! old Grizel can't 
read a word herself, Lut many a time she de- 
sires me to be good — and so I will ; hang me 
if I don't read the Bible from beginning to 
end, hard names and altogether ! 

Lady G. Come into the parlour with me : 
vou must tell me more of this story of Mr. 
Worshipton and my niece. 

Re-eater Miss Martin with the drops. 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



293 



Miss Martin. I sought them every where, 
and thought I should never 

Lady G. We don't want them now ; carry 
them back again. [Exeunt Lady Goodbody 
and Will by one side, and Miss Martin by the 
other. 

Scene III. — the inn yard, with the 

STABLE-DOOR IN FRONT, AT WHICH 
WILL APPEARS, AS IF 'READY TO SAD- 
DLE A HORSE. 

« Enter Amaryllis. 

Jimaryllis I hear, Will, you are going by 
Lady Goodbody's orders to desire the young 
couple to return to her from church : I should 
be much obliged to you if you would take 
Dorothea behind you, for she has got some 
business in the village this morning, and there 
is no conveyance for her unless you take her 
up. 

Will. What, our Doll do you mean .' 

.Amaryllis. Yes, Will. 

Will. Hang her ! let her walk : Blackberry 
wx)n't carry double. 

Jimaryllis. I am sure he will, if you try him. 

Will. Why should I hobble all the way with 
a fat wench behind me.'' She's able enough 
to walk. 

Amaryllis. Don't be so ill-natured now : 
she would not be so to you if she could serve 

Will. No, to be sure : as far as a kick o' the 
guts goes to cure one of the extericks, kindly 
christian ! she will be ready enough with her 
service. 

Jimaryllis. Come, come! don't be so crusty 
now. Here is money for you : Blackberry 
must carry double. {Giving him money.) 

Will. Ay, to be sure, if I coax him well, I 
don't know but he may : for tho' he is but a 
brute he has as many odd humours about him 
as any reasonable creature. 

Jimaryllis. Do, my good fellow, and put a 
soft pillion under her, for the road is very 
rough. 

Will. Nay, hang me if I do that ! she an't 
so delicate, good sooth 1 — Let her be ready to 
set off in ten minutes, if she means to come, 
for I won't wait an instant for the firstmadam 
in England. A soft pillion for her truly ! 

{Grumbling as he goes into the stable.) 

Jimaryllis. {alone.) He has been my rival, 
I see, by his spite. But no wonder! my 
charming girl must have many admirers. 

[Exit. 



A CT V. 

Scene L — the kitchen, landlady 
discovered going up and down, bu- 
sy with her family affairs, and 
david with two countrymen, 
drinking a pot of beer together. 



First man. {drinking.) My sarvice to you, 
David. 

David, {drinking.) And Jiexe's to your 
very good health, Master Simons. But as I 
was a saying, if I were 'Squire Haretop, d'ye 
see, I would look after mine own affairs, and 
not let myself be eaten up by a parcel of 
greedy spendthrifts and wandering news- 
mongers. I would look after mine own af- 
fairs, d'ye see, that is what I would. 

Second man. To be sure, David, it would be 
all the better for him, if so he that he were in 
the humour to think so. 

David. Ay, to be sure it would, Master 
Gubbins. For this now is what I have al- 
ways said, and advised, and commented, and 
expounded to every body, that a man who 
don't look after his own affairs, is, at the best, 
but a silly colt that strews about his own fod- 
der. 

Landlady. Lord help ye, David ! would any 
one think to hear you talk, now, that you had 
been once the master of this inn, and all by 
neglecting of your own concerns are come to 
be the servant at last. 

David, {icith great contempt.) Does the 
silly woman think, because 1 did not mind 
every gill of gin, and pint of twopenny sold 
in the house, that I could not have managed 
my own concerns in a higher line .■' If my 
parents had done by me as they ought to have 
done. Master Simons, and had let me follow 
out my learning, as I was inclined to do, there 
is no knowing what I might have been. — 
Ods life ! I might have been a clerk to the 
king, or mayhap an archbishop by this time. 
{Jl knocking at the door. Landlady ofcns it, 
and^ enter two Farmers.) 

First Farmer. Is Dolly within .' 

Landlady. No, she is gone a little way 
a-field this morning, about some errands of her 
own. 

Second Farmer. That is a pity now, for we 
bring her such rare nev/s. 

Landlady. Lack-a-daisy ! what can that be ? 

Second Farmer. Her uncle, the grazier, is 
dead at last ; and tho' he would never allow 
her a penny in his lifetime., as you well know, 
he has died without a will, and every thing 
that he has, comes to Dolly. 

First Farmer. Ay, by my faith ! as good 
ten thousand pounds, when house and stock, 
and all is disposed of, as any body would wish 
to have the handling of. 

Landlady. Ten thousand pounds ! how 
some people are born to be lucky ! A poor 
woman like me may labour all her life long, 
and never make the twentieth part of it. En- 
ter Sully, Come liither, Sally: did Doll tell 
you where she was going this morning .'' 

Sally. No, but I can guess well enough, 
for she is all dress'd in white, and I know it 
is to Middleton church to be married to that 
there gentleman that writes all the songs and 
the metre. 

Landlady. 'Tis lucky it's no vforso. Step 
into the parlour, sirs, and I'll come to you 



294 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEI 



l)reseiitly. ( Exku nt Farmers and Sally differ- 
ent irai/s.) What luck some people have ! 
injuried to a gentleman too ! fortune makes a 
lady of her at once. 

David. By my failh ! and fortune has been 
in great want of stuti' for that purpose vvhen 
she could light upon nothing better than Doll. 
They lack'd of iisli to make a disli that filled 
their pan with tadpoles. 

Landlady. Don't be so spiteful, now, Da- 
vid ; some folks must be low in this world, and 
others must be high. 

David. Yes, truly, she'll be high enough. 
Give some folks an inch and they'll take an 
ell ; let fortune make her a lady, and she'll 
reckon herself a countess, I warrant ye. — 
Lord lieln us ! I think I see her now, in all her 
stuff siliis, and her great bobbing topknots, 
holding up her head as grand and as grave 
as a cat looking out of a window. — Foh ! it 
were enough to make a body sick. 

Landlady. Fy, David ! you are as spiteful 
now as if somebody were taking something 
out of your pocket: Fll assure you she has a 
more genteeler behaviour than most young 
women in the parish : I have given her some 
lessons myself. 

David. Ay, by my failh ! and her gentility 
smacks devilishly of the place that she got it 
from. 

Re-enter Sally in great haste. 

Sally. Lack-a-daisy ! 1 went to the stable 
just now to tell Will about Dolly's great for- 
tune ; and he is gone, and Blackberry is gone, 
and the chaise and horses are gone. 

Landlady. There is witchcraft about this 
house! — Fll pawn my life some of the gentle- 
folks are missing too ; let us go and see. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — enter lady goodeody, 

MISS MARTIN, AND SIR JOHN HAZEL- 
WOOD. 

Sir John H. {speaking as he enters.) I am 
heartily sorry for it : my nephew alone is to 
blame, and he will be severely punished 
for his fault. — You expect them to return 
when the ceremony is over : we sliall see them 
soon then. 

Lady G. I dare say we shall : and in the 
mean time let us drop this disagreeable sub- 
ject. 

Sir .John H. Forgive me, Lady Goodbody, 
for appearing to regret so much the honour 
of connecting my family with yours. 

Jjudy G. Indeed, Sir John, I could have 
wished to have received that honour from 
another party. Your nephew, however, sets 
you a good example in marrying, tho' Fm 
afraid it will be lost upon you. 

Miss Martin, (fretfully.) Your Ladyship 
has teased Sir Jolm so often upon this subject, 
that, if he has any spirit at all, he will cer- 
tainly remain a b.achelor from mere contra- 
diction. 



Sir Jolm H. Yes, Miss Martin, that is a mo- 
tive urged with authority by those who 
reconnnend it from experience. Nay, so 
greatly, it is said, do young ladies delight in 
it, that every thing they do ought to be ex- 
plained by the rule of opposition. When 
they frown upon us it is a smile of invitation; 
wiien they avoid us it is a signal to stand up- 
on the watch for a tete-a-tete ; {approaching 
her 7oilh an arch smile as she draws herself 
up with an affected indifference.) but when 
they toss back their heads at our approach, 
in ail the studied carelessness of contempt, 
we may consider ourselves as at the very pin- 
nacle of favor. Is it allowable, madam, to 
take this rule for my guide ? 

Miss Martin. By all means, Sir John ; self- 
love will naturally teach you to judge by 
that rule which proves most for your own ad- 
vantage. I hope, however, you will allow 
those unlucky men upon whom we bestow 
our smiles, to find out another for themselves. 

Lady G. {to Miss Martin, displeased.) You 
have got a sharp disagreeable way of talking 
of late, which is not at all becoming, child: 
you used to smile and look good-humoured to 
every body. 

Miss Mai-tin. And so I may again, madam, 
when I am with the poor silly folks who 
don't know how humiliating it is for them to 
be so treated : I hope 1 shall always be civil 
enough to spare Sir John Hazelwood that 
mortification. (Making hint an affected and 
ironical curtesy.) 

Lady G. (peevishly.) Let us have no more 
of this ! — Sir John, I shall now give up teaz- 
ing you about matrimony. I see you are in- 
corrigible. 

Sir John H. Then you see further than I 
do, madam, for I rather think it possible I 
may be persuaded to enter into it at last. 

Lady G. Fm sure I most earnestly wish it 
for your own sake ; and so confident am I of 
your making an excellent husband, that I 
would even venture to recommend you to 
the dearest relation I have. 

Miss Martin, {aside, breaking away from 
tkc7n suddenly, and hurrying to the other end 
of the room.) At it again ! I can bear this no 
longer. 

Sir John II. {to Lady Goodbody.) You see, 
madam, this conversation is interesting only 
to you and me : had I not then better make 
love to your ladyship ? 

Lady G. Why there was a time, Sir John, 
when I was not without admirers. 

Sir John IL How nmcli I should have 
liked — but it would have been a dangerous 
gratification— to have seen these attractions 
in their full strength which are still so pow- 
erful in their decline. 

Lady G. Tliere is still a good likeness of 
me, as I was in those days, which Mary now 
wears upon her arm : whilst I go to give 
some orders to my woman, make her pull off 
her glove and shew it to you. You'll have 
the sight of a very pretty hand and arm by 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY 



295 



ihe bye ; our family is remarkable for pretty 
hands. [Exit. 

Sir John H. (going up to Miss Martin.) 
M.ay I presume, madam, thus authorized, to 
beg you will have the condescension to grati- 
fy me. 

Miss Martin. I can't possibly : It is not on 
my arm at present. 

Sir John H. Nay, but I see the mark of it 
through your glove : may 1 presume to assist 
you in pulling it oS? {Offering to take hold 
of her glove, lohilst she puts moay his hand 
with great displeasure.) 

Miss Martin. You presume indeed : I can't 
suffer it to be pulled off. 

Sir John H. Then I mu.st indeed be pro- 
sumptuous, for positively I will sec it. {Tak- 
ing hold of her hand, whilst she, struggling 
to pull it away from him without effect, at last, 
ill her distress, gives him with the other hand 
a good hex on the ear , and then, bursting into 
tears, throws herself into the next chair, and 
covers her Jace with hath her hands.) My 
dear Miss Martin, forgive me I I fear I have 
beiiaved ungenerouslj^ to you: but believe 
nie, careless as I may have appeared, I have 
beheld you with the most passionate admira- 
tion. {Kneeling at her feet.) 

Miss Martin, (turning from him disdain- 
fullij.) Get up, Sir John, and find out some 
amusement more becoming your understand- 
ing and your years. {Walks to the bottom of 
the stage loiih assumed dignity, wlulst Sir John 
sits down much ttgitated on a chair on the 
front : she, turning round, perceives his agi- 
tati.un, and forgetting her displeasure, runs up 
to him eagerly.) 

Miss Martin. Good heaven ! is it possible 
that you are thus affected. What is it that 
disturbs you bo much .-' 

.?«> John H A very foolish distress, madam, 
but it will not long disturb me. 

Miss Martin. I hope it will not. 

Sir John II. Nay, it shall not, madam. — 
First when I beheld you, I was weak enough 
to think that I discovered in an assemblage 
of features by no means (pardon me) particu- 
larly handsome, as many worthy and agreea- 
ble qualities as would have been unpardona- 
ble in the most ardent ph3'siognomist. I saw 
thro' tJie weak designs of your aunt, and ap- 
plauded your delicacy and spirit, i will con- 
fess, that passing by the door of j'our apart- 
ment the other night, as it stood open, I 
heard you mention me to your cousin in a, 
way that completely ensnared me. I was 
foolish enough to believe 1 had at last found 
a woman in whose keeping 1 might entrust 
my happiness. But it was a weakness in 
me : I see my folly now ; and this is the last 
time I shall "be the sport of vain capricious 
woman. 

Miss Martin. Is it possible ! — Oil, we have 
both been deceived ! I have been deceived 
by something very far different from vanity 
— my wounded pride still whispering to me 
that I was the object of your ridicule : and 



you have been deceived by a physiognomy 
that has indeed told you untruly when it ven- 
tured to promise any thing more from me 
than the ordinary good qualities and disposi- 
tion of my sex. — We have both been deceiv- 
ed ; but let us part good friends : and when 
I am at any time inclined to be out of hu- 
mour with myself, the recollection that I have 
been, even for a few deceitful moments, the 
object of your partiality, will be soothing to 
me. 

Sir John H. {catching hold of her as she 
goes away.) No, madam, we must not jiart. 
{Looking stedfastly and seriously in her face.) 
Can you, Miss Martin, for once lay aside the 
silly forms of womanship, and answer me a 
plain question upon which the happiness of 
my life depends.' Does your heart indeed 
bear me that true regard which would make 
you become the willing partner of my way 
thro' life, tho' I promise not that it shall be a 
flowery path, for my temper and habits are 
particular. 

Miss Martin. Indeed, Sir John, you address 
me in so strange a way, that I don't know 
what I ought to say. 

Sir John H. Fye upon it ! I exj)ccted a 
simple, I had almost said a manly answer, from 
you now. {Pauses, expecting an answer from 
her, whilst she remains silent and embarrassed.) 
No, I see it is impossible : the vi'oman works 
within you still, and will not suffer you to 
be honest. Well, I'll try another method 
with you. {Taking her hand and gruspijig it 
firmly.) If you do not withdraw from me this 
precious hand, I shall suppose you return me 
the answer I desire, and retain it as my own 
for ever. 

Miss Martiii. Why, you have huit it so 
much in that foolish struggle, that you have 
not left it power to withdraw itself. 

Sir John H. Now, fye upon thee again ! 
this is a silly and affected answer. But let 
it pass : 1 find notwithstanding all my par- 
ticular notions upon these njattcrs, I must 
e'en take thee as thou art with all tiiy faults. 
{Kissing her hand dcToutly.) 

Miss Martin. I think 1 hear Worshipton's 
voice. 

Sir John H. Ah, my poor miserable bride- 
groom of a nephew ! 1 must be angry with 
him now, and I know not at present how to 
be angry. 

Enter WoRSHirroN and Hannah. 

JVor. My dear uncle, I crave your bless- 

Sir JolinH. I think, sir, it would become 
you better, in the first place, to crave my 
pardon. 

Wor. The world makes great allowance, 
my good Sir, for young men of fashion in 
my situation ; knowing us to be of a free, 
careless, and liberal disposition, it calls us net 
strictly to account in matters of elojienient. 

Sir John II. A liberal disposition ! No, sir ; 
more selfish than the miser who hides h:a 



J!9f. 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY 



hoardrd gold in tlie earth. 1 wish you had 
jnade what is realh' right, and not wliat the 
world thinks allowable, the rule of your con- 
duct. 

IP'or. I shan't arj^ue with you about con- 
duct, Sir John ; it is a devilish awkward 
word in a youn^ fellow's mouth : but if you 
will dome the lionour of visiting me in town 
next winter, 1 shall introduce you to such so- 
ciety and amusements as country gentlemen 
have not always the opportunity of knowing. 
You will, I doubt not, have more deference 
for the world when you arc better acquainted 
with it. 

Sir John H. You are infinitely obliging, my 
most liberal sir. — And so this is all tiie apolo- 
gy you mean to offer for deceiving a young 
girl, and making her the victim of your frivo- 
lous and fantastical wants .' 

War. No, no ! I do mean to make an apol- 
ogy to the old lacty. — Ha ! ha .' ha ! tho' I 
can't help laughing V7hen I think how I have 
cheated that wonderful piece of goodness and 
circumspection. I milst coax her a little to 
bring round the old fellow, my father-in-law, 
for 1 must have a brace of thousands to begin 
with immediatel}^ 

Sir John H. Yes, you are perfectly right to 
make as much of Irim as yon can. (Sir John 
lca7is thoug/ilfulh/ anainsl the side scene, and 
Worshipton struts conceitedly vp and down, 
whilst Miss Martin a%d Hannah come for- 
ward from the bottom of the stage, engaged in 
conversation.) 

Hannah, {in a busy half-iohisper.) So you 
see, m}' dear Mary, you must just tell my 
auut tliat he ran away with me, and I could 
not help it. For, O la I he is so in love with 
me you can't think ! And do you know we 
were married by such a queer-looking man : 
he had fifteen holes in his cassock, for I count- 
ed them all over the time of the service. And 
do you know, when we came to tho church 
door, Mr. Worshipton had never a ring to put 
upon my finger. And do you know he bor- 
rowed an old ugly silver one of a woman ywlio 
sold ballads bj^ the gate, and gave her hnlf-a- 
guinea for it, tho' it is not worth a sixpence. 
But I'm just as good a married woman, you 
know, for all that, as if it had been gold. 
{Holding vp her finger with the ling upon it.) 
An't I.? 

Miss Martin. I believe it will make no 
great difference. 

Hannah. I thought so. — Now do speak to 
my aunt for me. 

Miss Martin. I certainly will, my dear Han- 
nah, tho' you have played so sly with us. 

Hannah. But la! don't tell her about the 
half guinea for the ring, for tliat would make 
her angrier than all the rest of it. — O lud ! 
here she comes : stand before me a little bit. 
{Shrinking behind Miss Martin's back.) 

Enter L.vdy Goodbody. 

Lady G. Well, Mr. Worshipton, what have 
you done with my niece ? 



JVor. There she is, madam. (Hannah co7nes 
fro7n behind backs, and makes Lady Goodbody 
an aickward frightened curtesy.) We are both 
come to beg your forgiveness, and 1 hope she 
will not suner in your ladyship's good opinion 
for the honour she has conferred upon your 
humble servant. 

Lady 0. He must be a very humble ser- 
vant indeed who derives any honour from her. 

JVor. We hoped from the message j^ou were 
so obliging as to send us, that we should not 
find you very severe. 

Lady G. 1 think, however, I maybe allow- 
ed to express some displeasure at not being 
consulted in a matter so interesting to my 
family, without being considered as very 
severe. 

Wor. {aside to Sir John.) I only wonder she 
is not more angry with me. {Aloud to Lady 
Goodbody.) 1 was afraid, madam, of finding 
you unfavourable to my wishes, and durst not 
risk my happiness. But I hope you have no 
doubt of the honour of my intentions. 

Lady G. Certainly ; I cannot doubt of their 
being very honourable, and very disinterested 
also. — I have known men mean enough and 
selfish enough to possess themselves by secret 
elopements of the fortunes of unwary girls, 
whilst they have had nothing to give in re- 
turn but indifference or contempt. Nay, I 
have heard of men so base as to take advan- 
tage of the weakness of a poor girl's intellects 
to accomplish the ungenerous purpose. But 
it is impossible to ascribe any but disinterested 
motives to you, Mr. Worshipton, as Miss Clod- 
pate has but a very small fortune. 

Wor. {starting.) What do you mean, ma- 
dam ? the only child of your brother. Sir Row- 
land : you call'd her so yourself. 

Lady G. 1 told you she was the only child 
of my brother by his wife Sophia Elmot ; but 
disagreeable circumstances sometimes take 
place in the best families, which it goes against 
one's feelings to repeat ; and there was no 
necessity for my telling you, in indifferent 
conversation, that he has married his own 
cook maid a year and a half ago, by. whom he 
has two stout healthy boys. (Worshipton 
stands like one petrified for some time, but per- 
ceiving a smile upon Miss Martin's/rtcc takes 
covrage.) 

Wor. Come, come! this joke won't pass 
upon me : I'm not so easily played upon. 

Sir John H. It is a joke I'm afraid that 
will not make you merry, Worshipton. 

Wor. I'll believe nobody but Hannah her- 
self, for she can't be in the plot, and she is 
too simple to deceive me. (To Hannah.) 
Pray, my good girl, how many brothers have 
yon got .' 

Hamiah. La ! only two ; and one of them 
is called Rowland after my father, you know, 
and one of them little Johnny. 

Wor. O, hang little Johnny, and the whole 
fools of the race ! I am ruined beyond re- 
demption. {Pacing up and doicn, and tossing 
about his arms in despair ) 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



297 



Hannah, (going up to him.) La ! Mr. Wor- 
shipton, what is the matter ? 

Miss Martin, {pulling her hack.) Don't speak 
lo him now. 

Lady G. {going up to him soothingly.) Don't 
be so much overcome, Mr. Worshipton ; 
things are not so very desperate. Hannah 
will have five thousand pounds at her father's 
death : he allows her the interest of it in the 
mean time, and I shall add two hundred a year 
to it. This, joined to your pay, may, I think, 
with prudence and economy, enable you lo 
live together in a very snug comfortable way. 

JVor. Damn your snug comfortable ways 
of living ! my soul abhors the idea of it. I'll 
pack up all I have in a knapsack first, andjoin 
Uie wild Indians in America. — I wish I had 
been in the bottomless ocean ere I had come 
to this accursed place. 

Sir John H. Have a little patience, Wor- 
shipton, and hear my plan for you. I'll pay 
your debts ; you shall have the same income 
you had before, with more prudence perhaps 
to manage it well ; and your wife shall live 
with her friends in the country. 

Hannah. No, but I'll live with mine own 
husband, for he knows well enough he is 
mine own husband. ( Taking holdof 'Worship- 
ton, jvhilst he shakes her off in disgust.) 

Lady G. How can you use your wife so, 
Mr. Worshipton ! 

Hannah, {whimpering.) Oh ! he don't love 
me I Oh dear me ! he don't love me a bit ! 

fVor. What is the creature whimpering for .' 
I shall run distracted I 

Sir John H. For God's sake be more calm ! 
If you'll promise to live prudently in town, 
we shall manage your lady in the country for 
you. But remember, Edward, the first time 
I hear of your old habits returning upon you, 
she shall be sent to London to pay you a visit. 

War. O dog that I am ! and so this is all 

that I have made of my plots and my 

Idiot and fool that I am ! 

Sir John H. Consider of it, Worshipton, 
and consider of it well. 

War. I am distracted, and can consider of 
nothing. 

Enter Amaryllis, followed by Dolly and 
Landlady. 

JlmaryJUs. I am come to pay my compli- 
ments to you, Worshipton, with all possible 
good will ; I wisli you and your fair bride 
joy, most cordially. 

War. Nay, I wish you joy, Amaryllis. 

JlmaryUis. Ha ! who has been so officious 
as to tell you of my marriage already .'' 

Wor. Married ! — No, faith ; I gave you joy 
because I thought you a bachelor still. Mar- 
ried ! what a dog you have made of yourself ! 
— But no; your refined, your angelic Delia 
has favoured your wishes at last, and with 
such a woman, you may indeed be a married 
man without being miserable. 

Landlady, {to Worshipton.) What did you 
Bay about Delia, sir .'' he is married to our Doll. 
37 



JimarijUis {fretfully to Landlady .) Who de- 
sired you to follow me here, ma'am .' 

Landlady. It was your own wedded wife, 
sir, that desired me to come ; and since you 
have chosen to marry the maid, I see no rea- 
son you have for to turn up your nose at the 
mistress. And you need not go for to be 
ashamed of her neither : she is as clever a 
girl as ever whirled a mop, and as honest a 
girl too ; and that is more than can be said 
for many a one that carries her head higher. 

Wor. (bursting into a laugh.) Heaven and 
earth, Amaryllis ! are you married to Mrs. 
Dolly ? 

JlmaryUis. Dorothea is a very good girl, 
Mr. Worshipton. 

Wor. Yes, yes ! I see 'tis even so. Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! {Imighing violently for a long time, 
till he is obliged to hold both his sides.) This 
is excellent ! this is admirable ! I thank thee, 
Amaryllis ! thou hast been playing the fool as 
well as myself. Give me thy hand, man. — 
Ha! ha! ha! 

Sir John H. {stepping fortcard, after having 
whispered some tivie behind backs with the Land- 
lady.) No, good nephew, moderate your laugh- 
ter a little ; Amaryllis has been playing the 
fool in a very different way from you ; for he 
has married his bride without expecting one 
farthing with her, and learns on returning 
from church, as our good landlady has been 
informing me, that an uncle of hers is just 
dead, who has left her a very handsome for- 
tune. (Worshipton, whose mirth stops in a 
moment, endeavours to r esame the laugh a sain, 
but finding it tcont do, retires in confusion to 
the bottom of the stage.) 

Sir John H. {to Amaryllis and Dol- 
ly.) Much happiness may you both have in 
your good fortune ! With the woman of 
3'our choice, and a competency, Amaryllis, 
you will be in the most favourable state of all 
others for courting the muses. 

JlmaryUis. Yes, Sii John ; with my own 
slender patrimony, and the fortune my wife 
brings to me, I hope to -make my little cot no 
unfavoured haunt of the fair sisters I am 
not the first poet who has been caught by the 
artless charms of a village maid ; and my 
wife will have as much beauty ni my eyes, 
dress'd in her russet gown, as the 

Dolly. But I won't wear a russet gown 
tho' : I have money of my own, and I'll buy 
me silk ones. 

Sir John H. Well said, Mrs. Amaryllis ! 
Gentle poet, your village maid is a woman of 
spirit. 

JlmaryUis. She is untaught, to be sure, and 
will sometimes speak unwittingly. 

Sir John H. Never mind that, my good 
sir; we shall have her taught. You shall 
make my house your home till your cot is 
ready for you, where I soon hope to have 
a lady who will take some pains to form your 
charming Dorothea for her present situation. 

Lady G. So you are to have a lady, then.' 
If you had told me so before, I might have 



THE COUNTRY INN : A COMEDY. 



spared all my arguments upon this subject. 

Sir John H. Indeed, madam, you might 
have spared them, tho' they were very good 
ones, 1 confess: the sight of this lady, {tak- 
ing Miss Martin's hand.) made every other 
argument unnecessary. I hope you will give 
me your blessing with her. I want but this, 
and will not inquire of you liow many brothers 
she has. 

Ladji G. So my Mary has caught you after 
all. Thank God for it ! She is good enough 
for any man, and I would rather give her to 
you than to any other man in the world. As 
for her brothers, she has but one, and he has 
increased, instead of diminishing her fortune. 

Sir John H. Talk no more of these things ; 
I hate the very name of fortune at present. 

Lady G. Pardon me ; but 1 must tell you 
what my nephew Robert did : it may be good 
for another new-made nephew of mine to lis- 
ten toil. (Glancing a look to JVorshipton.) 
He and his sister were left orphans without 
any provision : I bought him a commission in 
the army ; and with the addition of fifty pounds 
which I sent him every year on his birth-day, 
as a godmother's gift, he contrived to live re- 
spectably without debt, and was esteemed by 
his brother officerB. 



Sir John H. I know it well : a friend of* 
mine had the pleasure of knowing him abroad, 
where he served with distinction and honour. 

LMdy G. Yes, he was afterwards ordered 
abroad with his regiment, where he had it in 
his power to acquire a little money with in- 
tegrity ; the best part of which, (three thou- 
sand pounds.) he sent home to his sister im- 
mediately, that she might no longer be de- 
pendent even upon me ; and it shall be paid 
down to you, Sir John, upon her wedding- 
day. 

Sir John H. No ; God forbid that a coun- 
try gentleman should add to his ample in- 
come the well-earn'd pittance of a soldier ! I 
will have nothing from the young hero but 
the honour of being allied to him ; and what 
advantage may accrue, by the bye, to my 
family, by setting so fair an example to such' 
members of it, as may not have walked alto- 
gether in his footsteps. 

IVor. Well, well, I understand you ; but 
tell me no more of your good-boy stories at 
present : this cross-fated day has taught me a 
powerful lesson which makes every other 
superfluous. [Exeont. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS: A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
MEN : 

CoNSTANTiNE Paleologus, EmpcTor of the 
Greeks. » 

Mahomet, the Turkish Sultan. 

Othus, a Learned Greek. 

RoDRico, a Genoese naval commander. 

JtJSTiNiANi, a noble Genoese, and a soldier. — 

Friends of Constantine, and belonging to his 
brave band of volunteers. 

Petronius, ) Greeks, and secret agents 

Marthon, 3 of Mahomet. 

OsMiR, vizer to Mahomet. 

Heugho, an old domestic officer of Constan- 
tine's. 

Othoric, a rude, but generous adventurer. 

Fortune-teller, Citizens, .Attendants, ^c. 
WOMEN : 

Valeria, wife of Constantine. 

Ella, daughter of Petronius. 

Lucia, a lady attendant on Valeria. 

Ladies and Attendants. 

Scene in Constantinople, and in the camp of 
Mahomet, near the City. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — a large platform on the 

ROOF OF THE PALACE OF PETRONIUS, 
FROM WHICH ARE SEEN SPIRES AND 
TOWERS, AND THE BROKEN ROOFS OF 
HOUSES, &C. WITH THE GENERAL AP- 
PEARANCE OF A RUINED CITY, THE DIS- 
TANT PARTS INVOLVED IN SMOKE. 
ELLA IS DISCOVERD WITH AN ATTEND- 
ANT, STANDING ON A BALCONY BE- 
LONGING TO A SMALL TOWER, RISING 
FROM THE SIDE OF THE PLATFORM. 
AS THE CURTAIN DRAWS UP THE SOUND 
OF ARTILLERY IS HEARD. 

Enter Othus and Marthon. 

Othus. Ah, see how sadly chang'd the pros- 
pect is. 
Since first from our high station we beheld 
This dismal siege begin ! 'Midst level ruin. 
Our city now shews but its batter'd towers. 
Like the jagg'd bones of some huge animal. 
Whose other parts tlie mould'ring hand of 

time 
Has into dust reduc'd. 
Mar. (coldly.) It does indeed some faint 
resemblance hold 
To what thou hast compared it to. — How is't .' 



Art thou not from the walls .'' 
Othus. No, not immediately. 
Mar. Wert thou not there when Mahomet's 
huge cannon 
Open'd its brazen mouth and spoke to us .•" 
How brook'd thine ears that deep tremendous 

sound .'' 
The coasts of Asia and th' Olympian heights, 
Our land begirded seas, and distant isles. 
Spoke back to him again, in his own voice, 
A deep and surly answer ; but our city, 
This last imperial seat of Roman greatness : 
This head of the world, this superb successor 
Of the earth's mistress, where so many Cae- 
sars 
In proud successive lines have held their 

sway. 
What answer sent she back .'' 

Othus. Fye, hold thy tongue ! 
Methinks thou hast a pleasure in the thought. 
This head o' the world — this superb succes- 
sor 
Of the earth's mistress, as thou vainly speak'st, 
Stands midst these ages as in the wide ocean 
The last spar'd fragment of a spacious land. 
That in some grand and awful ministration 
Of mighty nature has ingulphed been. 
Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs 
O'er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns 
In lonely majesty. But shame upon it ! 
Her feeble, worthless, and degcn'rate sons — 
Mar. Yes, what say'st tliou of them.'' they 
also are 
The fragments of a brave and mighty race, 
Left on this lonely rock. 

Othus. No, .hlast them ! on its frowning 
sides they cluster 
Like silly sea-fowl from their burrow'd holes, 
Who, staring senseless on th' invader's toil, 
Stretch out their worthless necks, and cry 

" caw ! caw ! " 
O, Paleologus ! how art thou left, 
Thou and thy little band of valiant friends, 
To set your manly bosoms 'gainst the tide ! 
Ye are the last sparks of a wasted pyre 
Which soon shall be trode out. — 
Ye ! are the last green bough of an old oak, 
Blasted and bare : the lovelier do ye seem 
For its wan barrenness ; but to its root 
The axe is brought, and with it ye must fall. — 
Ye are — ^ O God ! it grasps my swelling 

throat 
To think of what ye are. 

Mar. A brave band, truly : 

But still our gallant emp'ror and his friends, 
Oppos'd to Mah'met and his numerous host 
With all his warlike engines, are in truth 
As if one toss'd against the whirl'd-up sands 
Of their Arabian plains, one grasp of dust. 



300 



CONSTAJNTTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Othus. Yes, they are few in number, but 
tliey are 
The essence and true spirit of their kind ; 
Tile soul of thousands. A brave band they 

are. 
Not levied by the power and wealth of states ; 
And the best feelings of the human heart 
Have been the agents of their princely chief, 
Recruiting nobly. Virtuous Sympatliy, 
Who on the weaker and deserted side, 
His ample, lib'ral front doth ever range ; 
Keen indignation, who, with clenched hand 
And sternly-flashing eye, ever beholds 
The high o'erbearing crest of proud oppres- 
sion ; 
And gen'rous Admiration, above all, 
Of noble deeds, whose heav'n-enlighten'd 

smile, 
And imitative motion, ever wake 
With eager heart-throbs at the glorious sight 
Of manly daring, have unto their numbers 
Some score of dauntless spirits lately added ; 
Such as would ride upon the whirlwind's 

back, 
If it might be, and with Heaven's spearmen 

cope. 
With such a band, methinks, all things are 
possible. 
Mar. {smiling.) Why, thou soft man of 
peace, 
Who in gay banquets spend'st thy giddy 

nights. 
And o'er some sculptur'd stone, or ancient 

lore. 
Each idle morning wast'stin the cool shade. 
Thou speakest with a bold and warlike voice ! 
Othus. {tliroiolng back his cloak, and shoicivg 
under it a tear like garb, with the scarf and 
devises belonging to the imperial band.) 
Ay, and wear'st too a bold and warlike 

form. 
Behold what now I am ! thou shrinkest back. 
And lookest strangely on me : give thy lips 
No friendly blessing to my new estate .'' 
Mar. Heaven bless the brave ! 
Othus. Amen ! but thou art cold. {Sound 
of art ill er 11 is heard again.) 
O hear that sound ! 
Doth it not stir thee as it thund'ring growls 
Along the distant shore ? {Shaking his head.) 

It moves thee nol. 
Is that the sound of female voices near us .'' 
Mar. Yes ; see'st thou not on yon high bal- 
cony 
That pale and fearful maid .' her watchful 

ear 
Is ever turn'd to ev'ry distant sound. 

Othus. My gentle kinswoman upon the 
watch I 
I know for whom she fears ; nor do I mar- 
vel; 
For she was present on that crowded shore. 
When Genoa's captain brought his gen'rous 

succour, 
And saw the brave contention of those men. 
In their proud vessels bearing boldly on, 
With wavy penants floating ontlie wind, 



Whose armed sides, like a goodly bank, 
Breasted the cnward tide of opposition. 
{Speaking with a great deal of cppropriute ges-< 

tare.) 
No wonder that her fancy has been niov'd ! 
Oh, it did stir the women on our walls — 
The infants — yea, the very household curs, 
That from their kennels turn'd to look upon 

it !— 
But for that motley crowd of moving things 
Which we miscall our men Nay, by the 

Thou too dost hear me with a frozen eye ! 

Enter Ella hastily from the balcony, and puts 
her hand eagerly upon the shoulder of Othus, 
who turns round surprised. 

Ella. What say'st thou of him? where 
fights he now .' 
Or on the land, or on some floating fence .' 
Othus. Of whom speak'st thou, fair Ella .'' 
Ella. Nay, nay ! thou know'st right well. 
Did I not see thee. 
High as I stood, e'en now, tossing thine arms, 
And motioning thy tale with such fit ges- 
ture 
As image ships and sails, and daring deeds.' 
Of whom speak even the beggars in our 

streets 
When they such action use .-* Thou know'st 

right well. 
Of Genoa's captain, and of none but he. 
Did'st see him from the walls .'' 

Othus. {smiling.) My little kinswoman, 
Thou lookest with a keen and martial eye 
As thou dost question me : I saw him not} 
I come not from the walls. 
Ella. Didst thou not talk of him as I de- 
scended .'' 
Othus. Yes, of that noble fight. — But dost 
thou see {pointing to his dress.) 
There are more warriors in the world, Ella, 
Tho' men do talk of us, it must be granted. 
With action more compos'd. Behold me now 
The brave Rodrigo's comrade, and the friend 
Of royal Constantine ; who is in truth 
The noblest beast o' the herd, and on the foe 
Turns a bold front, whilst with him boldly 

turn 
A few brave antlers from a timid crowd, 
That quakes and cov/'rs behind. 

Ella. Yes, Othus, I did mark thy martial 
garb : 
Heaven's angels bless thee ! 

Othus. And earth's too, gentle Ella. ('.4r- 

tillerij heard again.) 
Ella, {to Othus, starting fearfully.) O 
dost thou smile and such light words 
affect 
Whilst ruin growls so near us ! hath sad use 
Made misery and sport, and death and merri- 
ment. 
Familiar neighbours.-' — I'll into my chamber. 

Enter Petronius and a disguised Turk. 

Pet. {sternly to Ella.J Yes. to thy chamber 
go : thou liv'st methinks, 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS . A TRAGEDY. 



301 



On the honse-top, or watching in the tow- 
ers. 
I like it not ; and maiden privacy 
Becomes thy state and years. (To Othus.) 

Ka. ! art thou Othus ? 
Thou'rt well accoutred, sooth ! I knew thee 
not. 
Mar. Yes, he is now a valiant soldier 
grown : 
His Grecian lute, and pen, and books of 

grace 
Are thrown aside, and the soft letter'd sage 
Grasps a rude lance. 

Ella. Nay, mock him not, for it is nobly 

done. 
Pet. (sternly to Ella.) Art thou still here .' 
[Exit Ella abashed and chidden. 

And now, my Lord, (Turning to Othus.) 

Othus. (angrily.) And now, my Lord, good 

evening : 

I too, belike, shall trespass on your patience. 

If longer I remain. [Exit. 

Pet. Well, let him go, it suits our purpose 

better. 

But who could e'er have thought in warlike 

garb 
To see him guis'd ? He, too, become. a fool! 
Mar. He thought, as well I guess, to move 
me also, 
His brave devoted brotherhood to join : 
This was his errand here. 

Pet. I do believe it well : for Constantino, 
With many fair and princely qualities 
That in his clear morn no attention drew, 
Now, on the brow of dark adversity, 
Hangs like a rainbow on a surly cloud, • 
And all men look to him. But what avails 
This growing sentiment of admiration 
To our good means .' Good Turk, where is 
thy gold ? 
Turk, (giving him a bag.) There, Christian, 

whom I may not well call good. 
Pet. That as thou wilt : but Mahomet thy 
master 
Shall find me still his faithful agent here. 
This very night, as [ have promis'd to him, 
The people shall in insurrection rise, . 
Clam'ring to have the city yielded up ; 
And if your narrow caution stint me not 
In that which rules the storm, it shall be 

rais'd 
To the full pitch. 

Turk. And what is that, Petronius ? 
Pet. More gold. Ay, by thy turban and 
thy beard ! 
There is a way to make our timid sluggards 
The Sultan's work within these walls per- 
form 
Better than armed men. 

Turk. And what is that, I pray ? 

Pet. Why, more gold still. 

I have in pay, besides our mutinous rabble. 
Who bawl, and prate, and murmur in our 

streets, 
Prophets, and conjurers, and vision seers. 
And wise men not a few, whose secret 
haunts 



The timid flock too : j^any are the palms 
That must be touch'd. — There are within our 

walls 
Of idle, slothful citizens, enow. 
If with their active master they should join, 
Still to defend them : therefore, be assur'd. 
He who shall keep this fickle, wav'ring 

herd 
From such wise union, shall to Mah'met 

give 
This Mistress of the East. 

Turk. Fear not ; thou shalt be satisfied. 
Pet. Right : let us now to work : 'tis near 
the time 
When, from the walls returning with his 

friends. 
The Emperor his ev'ning hour enjoys. 
And puts off w-arlike cares : now let us forth, 
And urge those varlets on. (To Marthon.) 
Do thou into the eastern quarter go, 
And stir them up. Where is our trusty Gor- 

bus .'' 
The western is his province. Send him 

hither : 
We must some counsel hold : meantime with- 
in 
I wait his coming. Be thou speedy, Mar- 
thon. [Exit Marthon. 
Remember, friend. (To the Turk.) 
Turk. Thou shalt be satisfied. 
Pet. Good fortune smile upon us ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a state apartment in 

THE IMPERIAL PALACE, WITH SPLEN- 
DID SIDEBOARDS SET FORTH, ON 
WHICH ARE SEEN CUPS AND GOBLETS, 
&C., AS IP PREPARED FOR A GRAND 
REPAST, AND SEVERAL DOMESTICS 
CROSSING THE STAGE, CARRYING DIF- 
FERENT THINGS IN THEIR HANDS. 

Enter Heugho, followed by a Stranger and two 
inferior domestic Officers. 

Heu. (after looking over every thing.) Is 
nought omitted here ? the rubied 
platters, 
And the imperial cup — I see them not. 

First Officer. What boots it now, encom- 
pass 'd thus with foes 
And death and ruin grinning at our side, 
To set forth all this sumptuous garniture, 
Which soon shall in a Turkish liaram shine .' 
The Emp'ror heeds it not. 

He2i. (stamping with his foot.) Dog, but I 
heed it !■ 
And were the floating remnant of a wreck, 
With the sea bellowing round it, all that now 
Remain'd of the eastern empire, I thereon. 
Until the last wave wash'd us from its side, 
Would humbly offer to brave Constantine 
The homage due to mine imperial lord. 
Out on thee, paltry hind! go felcli them 
hither. [Exit Officer 

Stran. This is the hour, you say, when 
Constantine, 



302 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Like a tir'd woodman from his daily toil, 
Unclasps his girded Dreast; and with his 

friends 
Enjoys his social meal right cheerfully 
For one so overshadow'd with dark fate. 
I am a stranger here, and, by your leave, 
I fain would tarry still to have one view 
Of his most noble countenance. 

Heu. Thou'rt welcome. 
And, gentle stranger, thou wilt see a prince, 
Who ably might have reign'd, had not his 

heart 
To Ihe soft shades of friendly intercourse 
Still turn'd, as to its true and native place. 
A prince with loving friends, but lacking 

troops : 
Rich in the dear good-will of gen'rous minds, 
But poor in kingly allies. One thou'lt see, 
"Whose manly faculties, beset with gifts 
Of gentler grace, and soft domestic habits, 
And kindliest feelings, have within him 

grown 
Like a young forest-tree, beset and 'tangled. 
And almost hid with sweet incumb'ring 

slirubs ; 
That, till the rude blast rends this clust'ring 

robe. 
Its goodly hardy stem to the fair light 
Discovers not. Hark ! now they come : 

(Flourish of trumpets.) 
Stand thou secure, and see whate' er thou 

wilt. 

(Calling to some people off the stage.) 
Ho ! you without ! move there with more 

dispatch. 
(Several domestics again cross the stage as be- 
fore.) 
Stran. See, yonder come the brave imperial 

friends, 
If right I guess. They bear a noble mien. 
And who is he who foremost walks with steps 
Of gravely measur'd length, and heavy eyes 
Fix'd on the ground .' 

(Pointing off the stage.) 
Heu. That is Justiniani ; a brave soldier. 
Who doth o' tiptoe walk, with jealous care. 
Upon the very point and highest ridge 
Of honour's path, demure and circumspect, 
Like nicest maid, proud of her spotless fame; 
A steady, cheerless friend. 

Stran. And who is he with open, lib'ral 

front, • 
Who follows next .' 

Heu. He is the brave Rodrigo ; 
That Genoese, wlio, witli four gallant ships. 
Did in the front of tlie whole Turkish fleet 
So lately force his passage to our port, 
Bearing us gen'rous and most needful suc- 
cour. 
Does he not look like one, who in the fight 
Would fiercely strive, yet to the humbled foe 
Give quarter pleasantly .' 

Stran. And who comes after with more 

polish'd aspect. 
But yet, methinks, keen and intelligent ? 
Heu. Oh, that is Othus} a soft lettcr'd 

sage, 



Who wears his soldier's garb with its first 
gloss. 
Stran. Constantine comes not yet .' 
Hen. No ; first of all to his imperial dame, 
Who o'er his mind a greater influence has 
Than may, perhaps, with graver wisdom 

suit. 
Being a dame of keen and lofty passions 
Tho' with fair virtues grac'd, he ever pays 
His dear devotions : he will join them shortly. 
But softly ; here they are. 

Enter Justiniani, Rodrigo,Othus, and many 
others of the Emperor's friends, armed as if 
returned from the walls. 

Rod. (to Justiniani.) Thou'rt sternly grave: 

has aught in this day's fight 
Befall'n, thy eager temper to disturb ? 
Jus. Your first directed fire should, in good 

right. 
Have been against that Turkish standard 

sent, 
Rear'd in their front. 

Rod. And shall we seriously expend our 

strength 
In paying worship to each Turkish rag 
That waves before our walls .'' 
But frown not on me, friend: perhaps I'm 

wrong. 
We who are bred upon a bark's rough side, 
And midst the rude contention of the waves, 
Must force our steady purpose, as we may. 
Right in the teeth of all opposing things. 
Wrestling with breakers on the scourged 

rock. 
Or tilting it with a seal's cub, good faith ! 
As it may chance, nought do we know of 

forms. 
Othus. Another time, valiant Justiniani, 
With more respect to warlike Ceremony 
We will conduct ourselves. 
Rodrigo well hath pled liis own excuse ; 
And I, thou knowest, am but new in arms. 
Jus. Methinks ev'n to a child it had been 

plain 

That, when so circumstanced 

Othus. Hush, hush, I pray thee, now ! the 

emp'ror comes : 
This is his hour of cheerful relaxation, 
Snatch'd from each circling day of busy 

cares, 
A faint gleam thrown across a dismal gloom, 
Let us not dark it with our petty brawls. 

Enter Constantine. 

ConstoTi.. (saluting them.) A pleasant meet- 
ing to us all, brave friends. 
After our day of toil ! There be amongst us 
Tir'd limbs that well have earn'd' their hour 

of rest ; 
This kindly-social hour, this fleeting bliss 
Of the tir'd labourer. Undo our bracings. 
And let us sup as lightly as we may. (Tak- 
ing off his helmet, which he gives 
to an attendant.) 
This galls me strangely : 
Mine armourer, methinks, has bettor skill 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



303 



To mar men's heads than save them. 

Nay all of you, 1 pray. {They all begin to 
take off their helmets, and fart of 
their armour.) 

And gentle Othus too, unbrace thyself: 

How hkest thou the gripe of soldiers' geer ? 
Othus. Worn in the cause for which I 
wear it now. 

It feels like the close hug of a rough friend, 

Awkward but kindly. 

Constan. Thanks, gen'rous Othus! it had 
pleased me better 

To've had the gentle service of thy pen. 

Thou could'st have told, if so it might have 
been, 

How brave men acted, and how brave men 
fell.— 

Well, let it be. {Turning aside to check his 
emotion, and then assuming a cheer- 
ful face.) 

You gallant seamen, in th' applauding view 

Of the throng'd beach, amidst the tempest's 
rage, 

Ev'n on the last plank of your sever'd bark, 

Ride it careeringly, my brave Rodrigo ! 
Rod. Yes, royal sir ; with brave true-heart- 
ed mates 

All things we do and bear right cheerfully. 
Constan. And so will we. — Your hand, my 
gallant friend ! 

And yours, and yours, and yours, my brave 
Eubedes — 

And noble Carlos too — and all of you — 
(Taking all their hands, one after another.) 

I am indeed so mated. 

Bring me a cooling cup, I pray, good Heu- 
gho. 

My tongue is parched. (Heugho presents a 
cup to him kneeling.) 

What, wilt thou still upon thine aged limbs 

These cumb'rous forms impose .-' These sur- 
ly times 

Suit not such ceremony, worthy Heugho. 
Heu. Be health and sweet refreshment in 
the draught, 

My royal master ! 

Constan. {tasting it.) And so there is : few 
cups presented thus 

Come with such kindness. But I have, in 
truth, 

Shrunk, as a potentate, to such small grasp, 

That now I fairly may put in my claim 

To the affections of a man. — Brave friends. 

Health to ye all ! (Drinks, then turning with 
a smile to Justiniani.) 

Justiniani, I with thee alone 

Have cause of quarrel in this day's long toil. 
Jus. How so, an' please your highness ? 

The holy hermit, counting o'er his beads. 

Is not more scrupulous than 1 have been 

Nought of his sacred duty to omit. 

Constan. Thou put'st a gross affront upon 
the worth 

Of all thy warlike deeds ; for thou from them 

'Claim'st not the privilege to save thyself 

From needless dangers. On the walls this 
day 



Thou hast exposed thyself like a raw strip- 

hng. 
Who is asham'd to turn one step aside 
When the first darts are whizzing past his 

ear. 
Rodrigo there, beneath an ass's pannier 
Would save his head from the o'er passing 

blow. 
Then, like a lion issuing from his den, 
Burst from his shelter with redoubled ardour. 
Pray thee put greater honour on thyself. 
And I will thank thee for it. 
Jus. I stand reproved. 
CoTistan. I'm glad thou dost. — Now to our 

social rites ! 
No tir'd banditti in their nightly cave, 
Whose goblets sparkle to the ruddy gleam 
Of blazing faggots, eat their jolly meal 
With toils, and dangers, and uncertainty 
Of what to-morrow brings, more keenly sea- 

son'd 
Than we do ours. — Spare not, I pray thee, 

Heugho, 
Thy gen'rous Tuscan cup : I have good 

friends 
Who prize its flavour much, (^s he turns 

to go with his friends to the bottom 

of the stage, where a curtain between 

the pillars being draion up, discovers 

their repast set out, a Citizen enters 

in haste.) 
Citizen. I crave to speak unto the emperor. 
Constan. What is thine errand .' 
Citizen. My royal sir, the city's in commo- 
tion : 
From ev'ry street and alley, ragged varlets 
In crowds pour forth, and threaten mighty 

things. 
But one, whom I out-ran, comes on my steps 
To bring a fuller tale. 

Constan. {to Citizen.) Thou'rt sure of this.' 

Citizen. It is most certain. 

Constan. {to Othus.) What think' st thou, 

good Othus ? 
Othus. I doubt it not : 'tis a degraded herd 
That fills your walls. This proud imperial 

city 
Has been in ages past the great high-way 
Of nations driving their blind millions on 
To death and carnage. Thro' her gates have 

past 
Pale cowled monarchs and red-sworded 

saints. 
Voluptuaries foul, and hard-eyed followers 
Of sordid gain — yea, all detested things. 
She hath a common lake or fludge-pool been, 
In which each passing tide has lefl behind 
Some noisome sediment. She is choak'd up 
With mud and garbage to the very brim. 
Her citizens within her would full quietly 
A pagan's slaves become, would he but 

promise them 
The sure continuance of their slothful ease. 
Some few restraints upon their wonted habits 
And Mah'met's gold, no doubt, have rous'd 

the fools 
To this unwonted stir. 



304 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGED-y . 



Constan. It may be so : I shall wait fur- 
ther tidings. 
Mean time, my friends, go ye, and as ye. can, 
fcsnatcli a short soldier's meal. 

( They hesitate.) 
Nay, go I pray you ! , 

I must not to my friends say " I command." 
{They all go immciliiitclij, and without any or- 
der, standing round the table, begin to eat.) 
(To the Citizen, remaining still on the front 
of the stage.) 

And so thou say'st But lo! another 

messenger. 
Enter another Citizen in great haste. 
Second Citizen. The citizens in crowds — 
the men and women — 
The very children too — mine eyes have seen 
it— 

In crowds they come 

Constan. Take breath, and tell thy tale 
Distinctly. From what quarter comest thou .'' 
Second Citizen. I'm from the east. 

Enter Third Citizen. 
Third Citizen. I come to tell your highness 
that the city 
Is in commotion ; ev'n with flesh-forks arm'd. 
And all the implements of glutt'nous sloth, 
The people pour along in bawling crowds, 
Calling out, "bread," and "Mah'met," and 

" surrender," 
Towards the royal palace. 

Constan. And whence art thou ? 
Third Citizen.' I'm from the western quar- 
ter. 
Constan. Ha ! spreads it then so wide ' 
( Calling to his friends at the bottom of 
the stage.) 
Friends, by your leave, 
I somewhat must upon your goodness bear. 
Give me my helmet and ipy sword again: 
This is no partial fray. (Beginning to arm, 
tchilstoU the rest follow his example.) 
Rod. Well, let us jostle with these ragged 
crafts, 
And see who grapples best. (Buckling on his 
armour gayhj.) 
Jus. A soldier scorns to draw his honour'd 
blade 
On such mean foes : we'll beat them off with 
sticks. 
Othus. Words will, perhaps, our better weap- 
ons prove, 
When us'd as brave men's arms should ever 

be. 
With skill and boldness. Swords smite sin- 
gle foes. 
But thousands by a word arc struck at once. 
(.45 they all gather round Constantine, and are 
ready to follow him, enter Valeria in great 
alarm , followed by Lucia, and several ladies.) 
Val. (to Constantine.) O, hast thou heard it ? 
Constan. Yes, my love, they've told me. 
Val. From the high tower my ladies have 
dcscry'd 
The dark spires redd'ning in their torches' 
light, I 



Whilst, like the hoarse waves of a distant sea, 

Their mingled voices swell as they approach. 

Constan. It is a storm that soon will be o'er- 

blown : 
I will oppose to them a fixed rock, 
Which they may beat against but cannot 

shake. 
Val, That is thyself. — O, no I thou shalt 

not go ! 
Yea, 1 am bold ! misfortune mocks at state, 
And strong affection scorns all reverence ; 
Therefore, before these lords, ev'n upon thee, 
Thou eastern Ctesar, do I boldly lay 
My woman's hand, and say, " thou shalt not 

go." 
Constan. Thy woman's hand is stronger, 

sweet Valeria, 
Than warrior's iron grasp, 
But yet it may not hold me. Strong affection 
Makes thee most fearful where no danger is. 
Shall eastern Csesar, like a timid hind 
Scar'd from his watch, conceal his cowering 

head ? ' . 

And does an empire's dame require it of him? 
Val. Away, away, with all those pompous 

sounds ! 
I know them not. I by thy side have shar'd 
The public gaze, and the applauding shouts 
Of bending crowds : but I have also shar'd 
The hour of thy heart's sorrow, still and si- 
lent. 
The hour of thy heart's joy. I have support- 
ed 
Thine aching head, like the poor wand'rer's 

wife, 
Who, on his seat of turf, beneath heaven's 

roof. 
Rests on his way. — The storm beats fiercely 

on us ; 
Our nature suits not with these worldly times, 
To it most adverse. Fortune loves us not; 
She hath for us no good : do we retain 
Her fetters only ? J\o, thou shalt not go ! 

( Twining her ai-ms round him.) 
By that which binds the peasant and the 

prince. 
The warrior and the slave, all that do bear 
The form and nature of a man, I stay thee ! 
Thou shalt not go. 

Constan. Would'st thou degrade me thus ? 
Val. Would'st thou unto my bosom give 

deatli's pang .' 
Thou lov'st me not. 

Constan. {icith emotion, stretching out his 

hand to his friends who stand at some 

distance.) 
My friends, ye see how I am fetter'd here. 
Ye who thus bravely to my fortunes cling 
With generous love, less to redeem their fall 
Than on my waning fate by noble deeds 
To shed a parting ray of dignity : 
Ye gen'rous and'dovoted ; still with you 
I thought to sliare all dangers : go ye now, 
And to the current of this swelling tide 
Set your brave breasts alone. ( Waving them off 

with his hand, and then turning to her.) 
Now, wife, where would'st thou le^id ipe .' 



€0NSTANT1NE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



305 



Val. {pointing tcith great energy to the friends 
who are turning as if to go out .) 
There, there ! O, there I thou hast no other 
way. [Brushing aicaij her tears hasti- 
ly, and then assuming an air of digni- 
ty, she takes Constantine by the hand, 
and hading him across the stage, pre- 
sents him to his friends.) 
Most valiant, honour'd men, receive your 

chief, 
Worthy the graceful honours of your love. 
And heaven's protecting angel go with you ! 
(Exeunt Constantine and his friends, paying 
obeisance to her as they retire, which she re- 
turns with the profoundcst respect, continu- 
ing to look after them, till they are out of 
sight ; then rettirning to the front of the 
stage with a deep sigh, remains for sometime 
with her eyes fixed on the ground.) 
Lucia. My dear and royal mistress, be not 
thus .' 
The people will their sov'reign lord respect. 
Val. Will they ? Where is my little Georgi- 
an maid, 
Whose grandsire, tho' a brave and sov'reign 

prince, 
Was piece-meal torn by a ferocious crowd ? 

Lucia. She told a wonderful surcharged tale. 
Perhaps to move your pity : heed it not. 
Val. Ah ! where unto do all these turmoils 
tend — 
The wild contention of these fearful times.'' 
Each day comes bearing on its weight of ills, 
With a to-morrow shadow'd at its back 
More fearful than itself. A dark progress- 
ion — 
And the dark end of all, what will it be.' 
Lucia. Let not such gloomy thoughts your 
mind o'ercast ; 
Our noble emperor has on his side 
The dark and potent powers. 
Val. What is thy meaning .'' 
TMcia. A rarely-gifted man, come from afar, 
Who sees strange visions rise before his sight 
Of things to come, hath solemnly pronounc'd it 
That Paleologus has on his side 
The dark and potent powers. 

Val. Alas ! alas ! are they the friends of vir- 
tue .' 
Who told thee this ? 

Lucia. One unto whom he told such mar- 
v'llous things 
As did all nat'ral knowledge far exceed. 
Val. Thou dost impress me with a strange 
desire, 
As tho' it were upon my mind impress'd 
Bv secret supernatural power. Methinks, 
Were this dread night with all its dangers past, 

I too would fain Ha ! hark ! what noise 

is that ? {Listening with great alarm.) 
Hark, hark ! it is the sound of many sounds. 
Mingled and terrible, tho' heard afar. 

Lucia. Shall I ascend the tower, and give 
you notice 
Whate'ere I see .' 

Val. {eagerly.) I'll go myself {Exit in great 
alarm, follmoed by Lucia and ladies, 

38 



ACT IL 
Scene I. — an open street, before thk 

IMTERIAL PALACE. A CROWD OF MEN, 
WOMEN, AND CHILDREN DISCOVERED, 
BEARING IN THEIR HANDS TORCHES, 
WITH CLDBS, STICKS, &C. AND THE 
STAGE ENTIRELY LIGHTED BY THE 
RED GLARE OF THEIR TORCHES CAST 
UP AGAINST THE WALLS OF THE BUILD- 
ING. THE CONFUSED NOISE AND CLAM- 
OUR OF A GREAT CROWD IS HEARD 
AS THE CURTAIN DRAWS UP. 

First Crowd. Holla ! let them come forth who 
trouble us. 
And love they blood and beating they shall 
have it. 
Second Crowd. Surrender ! bread and wine, 
and peaceful days ! 
Surrender, devils, or ye sliall pay the cost. 
{Jill the Crowd call out clamorously , and bran 
dish their torches, lye., in a threatening man 
ner against the palace.) 
Third Crowd. Must we, men well instructed, 
rear'd, and cherish'd. 
The chiefest of all townsmen of the earth ; 
We, whom all nations know and look upon 
With envious worship — must we from our 

meals 
And quiet couches, like your rude barbarians, 
Be scar'd and rous'd with the continued bel- 
lowing 
Of curst artillery ? it is a shame I 

First Crotod. It is a crying, an insulting 
shame. 
Ev'n Mahomet regards our polish'd race 
And rare acquirements ; but for Constan- 
tine 

Second Crowd. Ay, ay ! let him come forth 
with his base crew 
Of savage strangers ; and should they refuse 

us, 
Ev'n with good teeth and nails, fail other 

means. 
We will do vultures' work upon them all. 
{Jill of them calling out together, and brandish- 
ing their torches, ^~c., as before.) 
Holla ! holla ! we say to you again ; 
Emperor ! Constantine ! come forth to us ! 
{Jl grand door of the palace opens , from which 
tico flights of stairs descend into the street, 
and Constantine with his friends appear 
coming out upon the landing place The 
Croiod raise a o rcat noise upon seeing him, 
and he stretches out his hand as if he icish- 
ed to speak, but they still continue loud and 
clamorous.) 
Constan. Audience, if that your sov'reign 

may command it. 
Fourth Croiod. Yes, let us hear whathe will 

say to us. 
{Several together.) There is no harm in that : 

peace all of you ! 
Constan. Behold me at your wish, assembled 
citizens : 



306 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Was it the voice of children or of foes 
That cali'd me forth ? 

TIdrd Crowd. Go to with mocking words ! 

are we tliy children ? 
Constan. Ye say, indeed, too truly ! child- 
ren do 
Support, and honour, and obey their sire : 
They put their aiding hand to every burden 
That presses on him : ever gather round him 
When dark misfortune lowers ; and, strong 

in them, 
He lifts his lionour'd head amidst the storm, 
Blessing and bless'd. 
But I have stood in the dark pass alone, 
Facing its fiercest onset. In your homes, 
Ye've stretch'd your easy limbs and fann'd 

your brows. 
Whilst I in parching toil have spent the day, 
Aided by strangers. Ye too truly say 

" Are we thy children.''" When my sky 

was clear, 
Ye follow'd me with fond applauding love, 
And bade God bless your sire ; but when it 

lower'd, 
Back to your homes ye shrunk, and gen'rous 

strangers 
Are by my side where children should have 
stood. {^i confused viurmur rises 
amongst them, and some call out.) 
He speaks good reason, neighbours. 

(Others call out.) Out on it ! all fair words ! 
(Others.) Peace, sirs ! we'll hear him out. 
(Others.) No ! no ! no ! no ! (Brandishing 

their torches violently. ) 
0th. (breaking through them with a great 
club in his hands.) 
Peace, friends, I say ! I am a strong Hun- 
garian, 
And 1 will liear him out. (The clamour sub- 
sides.) 
Constan. Yes, when the tempest lower'd ye 
shrunk away. 
But if some gen'rous shame has mov'd you 

now — 
If, thus assembled, with repentant zeal 
Ye would return, behold these open'd arms ! 
O there be still amongst ye men sutficient 
To save your city, your domestic roofs, 
Your wives, your children, all that good men 

love ; 
Were each one willing for a little term 
To face but half the dangers which perforce 
Not doing this, he stands exposed to ; 
To bear but half the toils which I bear daily, 
And shall bear lovingly. 

First Crowd. Go to ! surrender and have 
done with it. 
Who thanks — who calls upon thee for thy 
toils ? 
Constan. That voice, which, in the hour of 
trial, bids 
The good man give his soft and sensitive 

frame 
To death and torture, and ev'n fearful wo- 
man 
Bend her fair neck unto th' uplifted stroke, 
Calls upon me — yea, and I will obey it ! 



Olh. By the good saints, he speaks like a 

brave man. 
First Crowd. Acts he like one ? will he 

come down to us .' 
(Several speaking together.) He does ; he 
comes in truth ! 
(Constantine, after speaking in dumb show to 
his friends, descends the stairs.) 
Second Croird. Ay, in good faith, he comes 

unarmed too 1 
Constan. No, citizens, unarra'd I am not 
come ; 
For ev'ry good man here some weapon wears 
For my defence. 

Fourth Crowd. Yes, he says well ; and we'll 

defend him too. 
(Several others.) And so we will ; huzza ! 
huzza ! huzza ! 
Long live brave Constantine, our noble Em- 
peror ! 
(Many speaking at once.) No, no ! peace and 

surrender is our call ! 
(Raising loud cries, and brandishing their 
torches with violent threatening ges- 
tures.) 
Fourth Croicd. Hear him out, fools, and he'll 
perhaps consent 
To hon'rable surrender. 

Constan. (to Fourth Crowd, and those who 
range themselves on his side.) 
No, friends ; if in this hope with me ye stand, 
Turn to your place again ; for whilst I 

breathe, 
With men enough in these encompass'd walls 
To fire one gun, never shall Turkish banner 
Upon our turrets wave. In this firm mind. 
Upon those walls I am content to die, 
By foe-men slain, or, if Heav'n wills it so. 
Here on this spot, by those I will not name, 
0th. No ! we will die first, be it as it may, 
Ere one hair of thy noble head shall fall ! 
Croicd. (o7i Constantine's«'rfc.) Long live 
brave Constantine ! brave Paleologus ! 
Huzza ! huzza ! 

Croicd. (on the opposite side.) No; bread, 
and peace, and Mahomet, say we ! 
(Both parties call out tumvltuously, and threat- 
en one another, and Rodrigo, Justiniani, and 
Othus rush down amongst them, leaving their 
other friends to guard the door of the palace.) 
Second Crowd. Ay, thou sea-lion ! thou too 
needs must come 
To growl upon us. (To Rodrigo.) 

Kod. No, faith ! I know you well : ye are at 
large 
A set of soft, luxurious, timid slaves. 
On whom a cat with muffled paws might 

mew, 
And ye would turn from it.— But still amongst 

you, 
I would upon it pledge ray main and claws, 
There are some honest souls who have ere 

now 
QuafTd their full bumpers to a brave man's 

health. 
And I, in sooth, am come, with their good 
leave, 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



307 



To shake hands with them all. Holding out 
his hand invitingly to the opposite 
crowd.) 

Come ; who loves valiant worth and Paleolo- 

Give me his hand. 

(Many of the crowd giving him their hands.) 
There is one for thee. 
(Second.) Ay, and there. 
(Third.) And there. 

JRod. (to one who hesitates.) And thou too, 
for thou wear'st upon thy brow 
A soldier's look : I must perforce have thee. 
(Casting up his hat i7i the air, and joined by 

all the crotod on his side.) 
Long live brave Constantine ! huzza ! 
( This they continue to do till the opposite party 
are dispirited and heat off the stage. Rod- 
rigo then presents his neidy-acquired friends 
to Constantine.) 

Con. I thank you all, my brave and zeal- 
ous friends. 
Within the palace walls I'll now conduct you, 
And martial there my new-gain'd strength, 

for which 
I give Heaven thanks. 

(Exeunt Constantine, _/bZ/owerf It/ his friends, 
4-c. Rodrigo walking last, and just about to 
go off the stage, when Othoric re-enters by 
the opposite side, and calls after him.) 
0th. Hark ye ! a word with ye, my noble 

captain. 
Rod. (returning.) What would'st thou say .'' 
0th. Look on my face ; my name is Otho- 
ric ; 
I'm strong, thou see'st, and have a daring 

soul : 
Look on my face ; my name is Othoric : 
Think'st thou thou shalt remember me, tho' 

thou 
Should'st ne'er again behold me ? 

Rod. I shall, my friend : thou hast a daring 

countenance. 
0th. My deeds shall not belie it. With 
this crowd i 
I came, a stranger of most desp'rate fortune, 
And hir'd by treach'rous men fell work^to do. 
But now, unhir'd, I'll do for your brave mas- 
ter 
A deed that shall make Turkish ears to 

tingle, 
And Christian too, or fail it or succeed. 
Rod. Wliat wilt thou do.' 
0th. The consciousness of what one arm 
performs 
Let one heart keep. 

Rod. Heaven aid and prosper then thy se- 
cret thought, 
If it be good and honest ! Fare thee well ! 

[Exeunt severally. 

Scene II. — a small narrow street, 

BEFORE A PRIVATE SOMBRE-LOOKING 
HOUSE. 

Enter Othus and Rodrigo. 



Othus. Move slowly here, for now we pass 
the fane 
In which the mystic vision-seeing sage 
To ears of faith speaks his wild oracles. 
Rod. What, he of whom we've heard such 

marv'llous things .■' 
Othus. Yes ; such perturbed times his har- 
vest prove. 
When anxious minds, in dread of coming ill, 
Would draw aside, impatiently, the veil 
Of dark futurity. — Softly, I pray: 
A female form now issues from tlie door : 
It moves, methinks, like Ella. 

Enter Ella from the house with a female At- 
tendant. 

Rod. (eagerly.) It is herself, and I will 

speak to her. 
Fair maid, as well I guess by that light trip, 
Thy lover's fate hangs on a lucky thread ; 
Tough and well whiten'd in a kindly sun. 
Ella. Well hast thou guess'd : fortune is 

passing kind ; 
She leads thee, fights for thee, and guards 

thy head 
From ev'ry toe-man's stroke. 

Rod. Ay, but thy lover, Ella; was it not 
Of him we spoke .'' 

Ella. Fye, do not mock me thus ! 

Othus. In truth he mocks thee, Ella, and 

no faith 
To fates foretold or mystic sages gives. 
Rod. Believe him not, sweet maid. We 

seamen, truly. 
Small dealings have with learn'd sorcery; 
Nor bead, nor book, nor ring, nor mutter'd 

rhymes. 
Are for our turn : but on the sea-rock's point. 
In shape of hern, or gull, or carrion bird. 
Our unled wizards sit, and, with stretch'd 

throats. 
Speak strange mysterious things to wave- 

toss'd men, 
With many perils compass'd. Nay, oft- 
times 
The mermaid, seated on her coral stool. 
Spreading her yellow hair to the sunn'd 

breeze , 
Will sing a song of future fortunes fair 
To him who has the luck to meet with her : 
And ev'n the nightly winds will thro' our 

shrouds 
Distinctive voices utter unto those. 
Who in their storm-rock'd cradles lie and 

think 
Of their far-distant homes. — I do believe 
That all good fortune shall betide thy love, 
Being thy love ; for that doth far outdo 
All other fortune ;. and besides, no doubt, 
A fair and courtly youth. 
Ella. Go to ! go to ! thou mockest me 

again ! 

I love a brave man 

Rod. And not passing fair. 
Nor very courtly ? 

Othus. No, nor wearing now 



308 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS . A TRAGEDY. 



His youth's best bloom ; but somewhat weath- 
er-beaten, 
And sunn'd on sultry shores? 

Ella. Fie on you both, you hold me in de- 
rision ! 
I'm young, and all unlearn'd, and well I 

know 
Not passing sage ; but do I merit this ? 
(I urns to go aicaij from them, in tears.) 
Rod. By lieavens, thou shalt not go ! 
( Catchino- hold of her hand to prevent her.) 
Thou sweetest thing 

That e'er did'st fix its lightly-fibred sprays 
To the rude rock, ah ! would'st thou cling 

to me f 
Rough and storm-worn I am : but if thou 

lov'st me, — 
Thou truly dost, I will love thee again 
With true and honest heart, tho' all unmeet 
To be the mate of such sweet gentleness. 
Othus. I hear a noise of tbotsteps : we'll 
retire ; 
Let us pursue our way. 

(Lookinir hchindas they go off.) 
'Tis one belonging to Valeria's train, 
Who hither comes with quick and eager gait. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — a large sombre room, 

J WITH MYSTICAL FIGURES AND STRANGE 
CHARACTERS PAINTED UPON THE 

\ WALLS, AND LIGHTED ONLY BY ONE 
LAMP, BURNING UPON A TABLE NEAR 
THE FRONT OF THE STAGE. 

Enter a Conjuror in a long loose robe, and 
Petronius, meeting him, by opposite sides. 

Pet. Well, my good sage, how thrives thy 
mystic trade .'' 
Go all things prosperously .' 

Con. As thou couldst wish : to many a 
citizen 
I have the fix'd decree of fate foretold, 
Which to the sultan gives this mighty city, 
Making all opposition and defence 
Vain ; and their superstition works for us 
Most powerfully. 

Pet. So far 'tis well ; but be thou on thy 
guard ; 
I am expressly come to caution thee. 
Should any visit thee, whom thou suspectest 
To bi> connected witli tii' imperial friends. 
Be sure thy visions speak to them of things 
Pleasant to loyal ears. 

Con. Fear not ; I have already ^been fore- 
warn *d. 
And have such caution follow'd. 

Pet. Thou hast done wisely : still keep on 
thy guard, 
And be not ev'n surpris'd if thou, ere long, 
Should's) have a royal visitor. My agents, 
Wiio in th' inipe-rial palace are on watch. 
Have giv'n nie notice that Valeria's mind 
Is this way bent. If so, let thy delusions 
Still tempt her in the city to remain. 
For herein is the sultan much concern'd. 



Hush ! we are interrupted. 

Enter a Servant. 
Ser. (to Conjuror.) A noble matron craves 

to speak with thee 
Con. Dost thou not know her .' 
Ser. No ; in a black stole 
She's closely veil'd; yet noble is her gait; 
And her attendant underneath his cloak, 
But ill conceafd, wears an imperial crest. 
Pet. and Con. (holh together.) Can it in- 
deed be she .'' (Pausing to consider.) 
Con. I'll venture it. (to Servant.) Go and 
conduct her hither. [Exit Servant. 
It must be she ; I'll boldly venture it. 

Pet. Thou may'st with little risk : mean- 
time, remember 
The caution I have given thee. 

Con. Trust to my skill, and be a while 
withdrawn, 
My noble patron. [Exit Petronius. 

Enter Valeria, concealed under along black 
stole, followed by Lucia and two female At- 
tendants, who remain at the bottom of the 
stage whilst she comes forward. 
Co?i. Approach, great dame. 
Val. Yes, in misfortunes so ; 
That is my eminence ; and unto thee 
I come, an anxious suitor, if tliat truly 
Th' unseen mysterious powers with whom 

thou deal'st, 
To human weal and woe alliance bear. 
And may unto the care-rack'd mind fore- 
shew 
The path o fawful fate that lies before it. 

I do beseech thee I 

Con. Say thou dost command ; 
For thro' that sable stole, were it as thick 
As midnight's curtain, still I could behold 
Thy keenly-glancing eye, and the dark arch 
Of royal brows accustom'd to command. 
Val. Ha ! dost thou see me .' 
Con. Yea ; and who is he, 
Whose shadowy unreal form behind thee 

towers, 
As link'd with thine, tho' absent.? O'er his 

head 
Th' imperial eagle soars, and in his liand 
He grasps the emblem of supreme command. 
Val. (throwing back the stole with astcmish- 

ment mixed icith fear .) 
O, most mysterious and wonderful ! 
Nothing is hid from thee : thou see'st afar 
The distant death's day of the swathed babe, 
Falling in hoary age, and the life's morn 
Oftho'se who are not. — Here then all con- 

fess'd, 
A wretched empress and a trembling wife, 
I stand before thee. O let thy keen eye 
Thro' the dark mist that limits nature's sight, 
Follow that phantom o'er whose head doth 

soar 
Th' imperial bird ! for, be it good or ill, 
His fate is mine, and in his fate alone 
I seek to know it. 

Con. And hast thou strength to bear it .' art 
tliou firm ? 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



309 



for that which smites mine eye must smite 
thine ear. 
Val. (alarmed.) Thou reck'nest then to 

look en dreadful things? 
Con. I may or may not; but with mind 
not brac'd 
In its full strength, seek not thy fate to know. 
Val. {after a hesitating paitse of great agi- 
tation.) I can bear all things but the 
dread uncertainty 
Of what 1 am to bear. 

Con. Then shall it be unto thee as thou 
wilt. 
{After some mysterious motions and muttering 
to himself, he turns his Jace towards the 
bottom of the stage, as if he hud his eye 
steadfastly fixed upon some distant point; 
and continues so for some time without mov- 
ing, whilst she stands icatching his counte- 
nance eagerly, with her face turned to the 
front of the stage.) 
Val. {impatiently, after a pause) O ! what 

dost thou behold ? 
Con. Nay, notliing yet but the dark form- 
less void. 

'Be patient and attend. 1 see him now: 

On the tower'd wall he stands : the dreadful 

battle 
Roars round him. Thro' dark smoke, and 

sheeted flames, 
And showers of hurtling darts, and hissing 

balls, 
He strides : beneath his sword falls many a 

foe : 
His dauntless breast to the full tide of battle 
He nobly gives. — Still on thro' the dark 

storm 

Mine eye pursues him to his fate's high 

cope — 

Val. His fate's liigh cope ! merciful, awful 

Heaven ! (-^ftcr a pause.) 

O, wherefore dost thou pause > thine eyes 

roll terribly : 
What dost'thou see ^ thou look'st on things 

most dreadful ! 
O look not thus, but say what thou dost see ! 
Con. I see a frowning chief, the crescent's 
champion, 
In bold defiance meet thy valiant lord. 

The fight is fierce and bloody. 

Val. Again thou pausest yet ;nore terri- 
bly.— 
Hast thou no utterance for what thou seest .■' 
O God I O God ! thou look'st upon his deatli ! 
(Clasping her hands violently.) 
Dost thou not speak .'' wilt thou not answer 

me .' 
Thou look'st upon his death I 

Con. I look on nothing, for thy frantic 
terrors 
Have broke the fabric of my air shap'd 

vision, 
And all is blank. 

Val. And will it not return to thee again.' 
O fix thine eyes, and to it bend thy soul 
Intently, if it still may rise before thee, 
For thou hast made me frantic l 



Con. {after a pa/ase, and fixing his eyes as 
before.) The forms again return — 
The champions meet : the fight is fierce and 

terrible : 
The fatal stroke is given; and Constan- 

tnie 

Val. Merciful Heaven ! 
Con. And Constantine lays the proud cres- 
cent low. 
Val. {pausing for a moment as if to he as- 
sured that she had heard right, and then 
holding up her hands in exstacy.) 
It is ! it is ! O words of bliss ! — "Thou see'st 
it! 
My Constantine lays the proud crescent low ! 
Thou look'st upon it truly ; and their forms 
Before thee move, ev'n as the very forms ^ 
Of living men ? 
Con. Even so. 
Val. O blessed sight ! 
It isnot witch'ry's spell, but holy spirits 
Sent from a gracious heav'n that shapes such 

forms ; 
And be it lawless or unhallow'd deem'd. 
Here will I kneel in humble gratitude. 

Con. {preventing her from kneeling.) No, 
no, this must not be : attend again : 
There's more behind. 

Val. Ha! say'st thou [more behind.'' — Or 

good or evil ? 
Con. Mixed I ween : 'tis still in darkness 

lapp'd. 
Val. In darkness let it rest: I've heard 
enough. 
I would not look upon thine eyes again. 
And in my fancy shape thy unseen sights. 
For all that e'er Is that _which lies be- 
hind 
A far extended vision .' {Pausing anxiously.) 
Thou wilt not answer me — well, rest it so. 
But yet, O forward look for one short year, 
And say who then shall be this city's lord. 
Con. Thy husband and thy lord, most 
mighty dame. 
Shall at that period be this city's lord. 

Val. Then I am satisfied. Thou hast my 
thanks, 
My very grateful thanks. Theie is thy rec- 
ompense, 
And tliis too added. (Giving him a purse, and 
then a ring from her hand.) 

We shall meet again 
In happier days, when the proud crescent's 

low, 
And thou shalt have a princely recompense. 
{Turning to her Jiltendants as she goes away.) 
Come, Lucia; come, my friends; the storm 

will pass, 
And we shall smile in the fair light of heav- 
en 
In happier days. [Exit, followed by her 
Jittendunts. 
Con. {looking at his reward.) Good sooth, 
this almost smites against my hearty 
But goes she not far happier than she came .' 
Have I not earn'd it well ' 



310 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



lie-enter Petronius. 
Pet. Tlinu hast well earn'd it. 
What ! harbour such poor scruples in a breast 
So exercised in a trade like this i 
Fye on't ! But if thy conscience is so nice, 
Know that thouha.st in all good likelihood 
Predicted truly ; and her lord and husband 
Shall be still, as thou say'st, this city's lord. 
Con. How so .' 

Pet. Ilast thou not skill enough to guess .' 
Much has the sultan of Valeria heard ; 
And, with the future beauties of his palace, 
His fancy, in the most distinguish'd rank, 
Already places her. Thou wilt ere long, 
I can foretell by certain fleeting shapes 
Which at this moment dance before mine 

eyes, 
A favour'd, famous, courtly prophet be. 
My little Ella too, taught by my art, 
May play, perhaps her part ; and so together 
We'll amicably work. — May it not be ? 
Put up thy gold, and say it is well earn'd. 
Con. It must be had, and therefore must 
be earn'd. 
Falsely or honestly.— Does Constantine, 
As speaks this morning's rumour, send 

again 
Another embassy to Mahomet 
With terms of peace ? 

Pet. He does, my friend : already in the 
palace, 
He, and his band of self-devoted fools, 
Deliberate on it. Thou, at no great risk, 
May'st prophesy the issue of their counsels. 
Con. I have adventured upon bolder guess 

ing. 
Pet. Excepting that slight aid from Ge 
noa. 
Which by the master of a coasting vessel. 
Kept secretly on watch, I am inform'd 
Is now almost within sight of the coast. 
No hope remains to Constantine. And this 
Shall not deceive him long ; for I've dis- 

patch'd, 
In a swift-sailing skiff", a trusty agent, 
Who shall with costly bribes and false re- 
ports 
Deter their boldness from all desp'rate ef- 
forts 
To force a passage to the block'd-up port : 
A thing Rodrigo's bold success alone 
Hath taught us to believe e'en possible. 
Con. Thanks for your information, my 
good lord : 
I'll profit by it. 

Pet. But use it prudently. And so good 
day. 
Well thrive thy trade, and all good luck at- 
tend us. [Exeunt severally. 



ARISING FROM A COUNCIL TABLE. 
THEY ENTER AND COME FORWARD. 

Constan. Well, 'my brave friends, I to your 
care intrust 
This last attempt by honourable treaty 
To gain peace from the foe. Heav'n 
your efforts. 
Just. All that strict honour will permit to 



Scene IV. — an apartment in the 

IMPERIAL palace, WITH A VIEW 
, THROUGH A GRAND ARCHED DOOR OF 
ANOTHER APARTMENT, IN WHICH ARE 
DISCOVERED CONSTANTINE, OTHUS, 
JUSTINIANI, RODRIGO, AND OTHERS, 



Shall be most truly done, imperial lord. 
And one step farther on we cannot go. 

Constan. Had 1 wish'dmore than tliis, Jus- 
tiniani, 

I had sent other ministers. 

Heav'n bless your efforts, brave ambassadors, 
And make you wise as brave ! 

If we succeed not, 
As much I fear, it is my earnest wish, 
Ere tlie grand push that shall our fate de- 
cide, 
To meet you all in blessed charity. 
And join with you, perhaps in the last rites 
Of christian worship that within our walls 
Shall e'er be celebrated. 

Otkus. Your wish shall be fulfill 'd : we all 

desire it. 
Constan. I thank you. In an hour hence 
be prepar'd 
To set out for the sultan's camp. So, brotli- 

ers, 
Good day, and all good favour. 

[Exeunt all hut Constantine and Othus. 
Constan. {to Othus as he is about to go af- 
ter the others.) Wilt thou ffo also. 
Othus.' 
Othus. Not if your highness does command 

my stay. 
Constan. Ah, gentle friend ! I do no more 
command ! 
But this distresses thee. Well, gen'rous 

man, 
Thou art commanded. (Pointing to a seat, 

and they both sit.) 
Here, by thy friendly side, 
I'll give my heart a little breathing space; 
For oh ! the gen'rous love of these brave 

men. 
Holding thus nobly to my sinking fate. 
Presses it sorely. 

From thee, nor from my self can I conceal 
The hopeless state in which I am beset. 
No foreign prince a brother's hand extends 
In this mine hour of need; no christian state 
Sends forth its zealous armies to defend 
This our begirded cross : within our walls, 
Tho' with th' addition of our later friends, 
1 cannot number soldiers ev'n sufficient 
To hold a petty town 'gainst such vast odds. 
I needs must smile and wear a brow of hope, 
But with thee, gentle Othus, I put off" 
All form and seeming ; I am what I am, 
A weak and heart- rent man. — Wilt thou for- 
give me .'' 
For I in truth must weep. 

Othus. Yes, unrestrained weep, thou val- 
iant soul 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS i A TRAGEDY. 



311 



Witli many a wave o'er-ridden ! Thou striv'st 

nobly 
Where hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had 

sunk : 
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed, 
Good men will mourn, and brave men will 

shed tears, 
Kindred to those which now thou shedd'st. 

Thy name 
Shall in succeeding ages be remember'd 
When those of mighty monarchs are forgot. 
Constan. Deceive me not ; thy love de- 

ceiveth thee. 
Men's actions to futurity appear 
But as th' events to which they are conjoin'd 
Do give them consequence. A fallen state, 
In age and weakness fall'n, no hero hath; 
For none remained behind unto whose pride 
The cherish'd mem'ry of his acts pertains. 

no, good Othus, fame I look not for. 
But to sustain in heaven's all-seeing eye. 
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man. 

Thus station 'd as I am, 1 will do all 
That man may do, and I will suffer all — 
My heart within me cries, that man can suf- 
fer. 
{Starting up with vehemence, and holding up 

both hands firmly clenched.) 
For shall low-born men on scaffolds tread, firm 
For that their humble townsmen should not 

blush, 
And shall I shrink .' No, by the living God ! 

1 will not shrink, albeit I shed these tears. 
Othus. To be in toils and perils, nay in 

sufferings, 
With th' applauding sympathy of men 
Upon his side, is to the noble mind 
A state of happiness beyond tlie bliss 
Of calm inglorious ease. 

Constan. O no, good Othus ! thou mis- 

judgest of me. 
I would, God knows, in a poor woodman's 

hut 
Have spent my peaceful days, andshar'd my 

crust 
With her who w^ould have cheer'd me, rath- 
er far 
Than on this throne ; but, being what I am,' 
I'll be it nobly. 

Othus. Yes, thou wilt be it nobly, spirit as 

brave 
As e'er wore Caesar's name ! 
Constan. {Smiling sorrowfully.) Yes, there 

is cause for me ; there is good 

cause. 
But for those valiant men, link'd in my fate. 
Who have in other lands their peaceful 

homes 
And dear domestic ties, on whom no claim 
Lays its strong hold — alas ! what cause have 

they .? 
What is their recompense ? Fame is not 

mine ; 

And unto them O this doth press my 

heart ! 



A heart surcharg'd with many cares, and 

press'd 
With that besides, which more than all — 

with that 
Which I have wrestled with — which 1 have 

strove — 
With that which comes between me and my- 
self— 
The self that as a christian and a man 

I strongly strove to be 

Othus. You have before some secret cause 
of trouble 
Hinted in broken words : will not your high- 
ness 

Unto a faithful friend 

Constan. {turning away from him.) No, no, 
good Othus ! 
Some times I dream like a distracted man. 
And nurse dark fancies. Power and lawless 

will — 
Defenceless beauty — Mahomet — Valeria — 
Shape out of these wild words whate'er thou 

wilt. 
For I can say no more. 

Othus. Alas, 1 know it all ! 
Constan. And yet why should it tlms dis- 
turb my mind .' 
A thought, perhaps, that in no other breast 
Hath any shelter found. It is my weakness : 
I am ashamed of it. — I can look 
On my short-fated span and its dark bound : 
I can, God strength'ning me, my earthly task 
Close as becomes a king ; and, being clos'd, 
To that which in this world's tumultuous 

stage 
Shall happen after it I am as nothing. 

Othus. Alas ! my royal master, do not thus 
To racking thoughts give way ! is there not 

means 
To free you from this pain, if you to use them 
Have courage .-' Let the empress be convey 'd 
Far from these walls. It is a cruel remedy, 
But it will give you peace. 

Constan. I did attempt it, but she has so 
closely 
Entwin'd herself upon me — O, my friend, 
It needs must pass ! I in th' unconscious grave 
Shall be at rest. 

Othus. But does she know the nature of 

your fears ? 
Constan. O no ! she does not I from that hate 
ful subject, 
As from a hideous serpent, still with her 
I've kept aloof. — Alas ! what can I do .'' 
1 could as well into her noble heart 
Thrust the barb'd dart as tell her what I fear. 
Othus. Perhaps she still, as from the com- 
mon horrors 
Of a sack'd town, may be conjur'd to flee. 
And here she comes : be it at least attempted. 
Enter Valeria, Lucia, and attendant Ladies. 
Val. {to Constantine.) I come to claim thy 
promise : one short hour, 
A hasty sunbeam thro' the cloud's dark skirt, 
Thou giv'st to me, and I must claim my right. 
Thy friends too, ere they go, shall be my 
guests ; 



312 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



I have brought powerful suitors to assist me. 

(Painting to ha- ladies.) 

Ha ! what disturbs tiiee f how is this, my 

love .'' 
Thy face is chang'd and troubl'd — What new 

cause 

Constan. O, no new cause ! one that has 

much distnrb'd me. 
Vol. And one to ino unknown ? 
Con. Speak to her, Othus ! 
Othus. By man}' various ills and cares op- 
press'd, 
Your royal lord is still most closely touch'd 
With tliat wliich does your weal regard. 

What fate 
May, in a storm-ta'en city, of dire sights 
And horrid cruelties, have in reserve. 
If such the city's doom, who can foresee .'' 
O, let him then his painful station hold, 
Gen'rous Valeria ! from one care reliev'd, 
His heaviest care, the thought of leaving thee 
The involv'd witness of such horrid things ! 
Val. What would'st thou say in this.-' 
Think'st thou the ruin 
In which he perishes will have for "me 
Or form or circumstances .-' It will be 
Th' upbreaking crash of all existing things, 
That undistinguish'd is, and felt but once. 
Othus, thou talk'st like an unskilful sage : 
It was not thus thy master bade thee speak. 

Constan. Valeria, hard necessity compels us. 
I have already safe asylum sought 
For the last tender remnant of our race, 
That something might from this dire wreck 
be sav'd. 

And shall I not for thee 

Val. No ; I am nothing 
But what I am for thee 1- When that is fin- 
ish'd — 
Cojistun. Ah my Valeria, but that will not 
finish ! 
Thou still niay'st be forme — thou still may'st 

bear 
Honour'd memorial amongst living men 
Of him who was thy lord. — Good Lucia, aid 

me, 
And gentle Servia too, and all of 3'ou ! 

{To the Ladies.) 
Cling round your mistress with your sooth- 
ing love, 
And say that in a foreign land you'll be 
The faithful friends and soothers of her woe. 
Where ev'ry virtuous heart will bear to her 
The kindred ties of holiest sympathy. 
Say ye will be with her in kmdliest zeal : 
Ye will not leave her ! 

Lucia and the other Ladies. No, we'll never 
leave her ! 

(Gathering round her affectionately.) 
Most dear and royiil Mistress, whilst life holds. 
In whate'er land, in whatc'er state you are. 
We'll never leave you. 

Val. 1 know it well : thanks to your gen'- 
rous love ! 
But yet forbear, nor thus beset me round. 
(Putting than gently from her, and fixing her 
eyes upon Constantine.) 



O, Paleologus ! hast thou for me 

In fancy shap'd a world and an existence 

Where thou art not .' 

(Running to him and falling on his neck.) 
Here is my world, my life, my land of refuge, 
And to no other will I ever flee. 
Here still is light and hope ; turning from 

this. 
All else is round me as a yawning tomb. 
Constan. My dearest love ! my gen'rous 
honour'd love I 
My sweet Valeria ! thou distractest me ; 
But have thy way, for I can urge no more. 
Let dark fate come : I will abide its worst. 
Val. Nay, say not dark; there is a hope 
within me ; 
'Tis sure, 'tis strong, it cannot be deceitful. 

(Jl signal heard from icilkout.) 
Hark ! hark ! a signal ! 

(Voices are heard calling without.) 

Ships are in sight ! supplies and warlike aid ! 

Val (holding up her hands.) O blessed 

sound ! there is salvation in it. 

Heaven sends us aid ! 

( Voices again call out as before and the signal is 

repeated.) 
Again the blessed sound ! 
And here Rodrigo comes, wearing a face 
Of welcome tidings. 

Enter Rodrigo. 

Succours, brave Rodrigo .' 

Rod. Yes, ships from Genoa are now in 
sight, 
Bearing, no doubt, brave aid, if to the port 
They can make good their entrance. 

(All except Constantine.) Good heaven be 

bless'd ! 
Constan. And say Rodrigo " if .'' " 

(Shaking his head.) 
Val. Nay, fear not, they will enter ; withr 
them comes 
Another brave Rodrigo ; thro' barr'd adamant, 
Did it oppose tliem, they will force their way. 
Rod. If they but have one jot of manhood 
in them. 
They'll do all possible things. 

Val. Ay, and all things are possible • 
Constan. In truth, tliou talk'st with such 
exulting confidence. 
Thou almost temptest me to grasp at hope. 
( Voices call out as before, and a sigiuil from the 
towers.) 
Val. The animating sound! Come, come I 
O, come ! 
And o'er the blue waves hail ths blessed sight. 
(Runs out cxultingiy, every one folloicing her 
with animated alacrity. 



ACT III. 



SCENK I. THE TURKISH CAMP: THE 

TENT OF MAHOMET, WHO IS DISCOVER- 
ED SITTING ALONE IN THE EASTERN 
MANNER, WITH A GREAT SHEET OF 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



313 



PARCHMENT SPREAD OUT BEFORE HIM, 
. WHICH HE IS CONSIDERING ATTEN- 
TIVELT. 

Ma. {after tracing some lines with a pen or 
pencil.) Ho, Osmir ! art thou here ? 

Enter Osmir. 

Come hither, vizir ; follow with thine eye 
The various dispositions of this plan 
Which for our grand attack I here have traced. 
God and the Prophet being on our side, 
That mingled broil of fierce and dreadful 

fight, 
Which shall not cease till from the list of na- 
tions 
This eastern empire, with its long told line 
Of paltry Caesars, be expung'd and blank, 
Shall not be long delay'd. 

Osmir. All things must yield unto the 

towering spirit 

And comprehensive genius of your highness. 

Permit your slave. (Looking over the plan.) 

Conceiv'd, indeed, with deep and wond'rous 

skill ! 
But mighty lord, if that a worm may speak, 
Your van, methinks, is of a motley class. 
The vile refuge and garbage of the camp ; 
Are mussulmen led on in glory's path 
By such as these .'' 

Ma. {smiling fiercely.) No; but brave mus- 
sulmen o'er such as these 
May step to glory's path. Garbage, I trust, 
Is good enough for filling ditches up. 
Some thousand carcasses, living and dead, 
Of those who first shall glut the en'my's rage, 
Push'd in, pell-mell, by those who press be- 
hind. 
Will rear for us a bridge to mount the breach 
Where ablest engineers had work'd in vain. 
Osmir. This did escape my more contracted 
thoughts. 
And here your highness stations Georgian 

troops : 
Are they sure men in such important service .' 
Ma. (smiling again.) Ay, sure as death ; 
here is my surety for them. 
See'st thou what warriors in the rear are 

plac'd, 
With each a cord and hatchet in his hand ? 
Those grizly hangmen, in their canvas sleeves. 
Fight for me better than an armed band 
Of christian knights full cap-a-pee. — Look 

o'er it : 
Something, perchance, may have escap'd my 
thoughts. 
Osmir. (after again examining it.) No ; every 
thing is consummately plann'd. — 
But, mighty sultan, this old officer. 
Whom you have station'd here with your new 

troops, 
Is not to be relied on. 
Ma. How so, Osmir .' 

Osmir. It is suspected that he has receiv'd 
The en'my's gold ; one thing, at least, is cer- 
tain. 



He has had private meetings with ihe foe. 
Ma. What ! art thou sure of this .' — Send 
for him quickly. 
The fool midst blocks and bowstrings has so 

long 
His base head tott'ring worn, he thinks, no 

doubt. 
It needs must be his own. Send for him 

quickly. 
And see that which is needful done upon him. 
(Draicing the -pen sternly across the name on 

the plan.) 
There ; from the world of Uving things I blot 

him ; 
Another takes his place. 

(Giving a paper to Osmir.) 
These are the usual orders for the night : 
Assemble thou the sev'ral oflicers, 
And give to each his own particular charge. 
Osmir. Your slave obeys. [Exit. 

Ma. (alone, after musing for a little ichue) 
Have I done well to give this hoary vet ran, 
Who has for thirty years fought in our wars, 
To the death-cord unheard .' 

(Sternly, after pausing a short space.) 
I have done well. 

In my disguised rounds, but two nights since, 
List'ning at his tent door, 1 heard him speak 
Words that methought approach'd to slight 

esteem 
Of my endowments and capacity. 
Yes, he is guilty. (Af^er walking up and 

down several times he opens another 
scroll.) 
But I will fear no treason : here is that 
On which I may rely. In mortal man 
I have no trust ; they are all hollow slaves, 
Who tremble and detest, and would betray. 
But on the fates, and the dark secret powers, 
So say those sure unerring calculations 
Of deep astrology, I may depend. 
(Sitti7ig down again, and considering thescroU.) 
Ay, it must needs be so : this constellation 
In close conjunction with the warrior's star, 
Trac'd back in magic numbers three times 

three. 
And nine times nine, and added three again. 
Unto the hour of my nativity. 
Makes it infallible. Here have I mark'd it 
With mine own science, num'ral, learn'd, and 

sure. 
Ha ! ha ! your foolish christians now believe 
Men's future fortunes are by wizards seen, 
In airy forms pourtray'd, like mimick shows, 
And trust thereto with fond simplicity. 
(Othoric, who about thr middle of this speech 
has made his appctinincifrom behind the cur- 
tain of the tent, disguised like a Turk, but 
without a turban, now, stealing close up to 
Mahomet, lifts up his dagger to strike.) 
What do I hear ? 

0th. It is thy fate, blind Turk, uncalculated. 

(Strikino.) 

Ma. (parrying the hloio with his sheathed 

scimitar which he afterwards draws.) 

Ho ! help without ! treason and parricide ! 



314 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Ho! guards without, I say! (Guards rush 
in and Othoric is seized, after defend- 
ing himself liesperatehj.) 
Ma. (Tr> Othonc.) Who art thou? What 
dark tyrant set thee on 
To do this murderous and horrid deed ? 

0th. And think'st thou such deeds horrid? 
— But 1 came 
To act and not to speak. 

Ma. Say rather, villain, to be acted on. 
Do racks and burning iron please thee well 
That thou should'st earn them with such 

desp'rate pains. 
{To the Guards.) Stretch out his arms, and let 
me look on them. Looking at his arms, and 
surveying him all over, he shririks hack as 
from a danger escaped, and then smiles 
grimly.) 
There will be tough work on those sinewy 

limbs 
When they are dealt with. — Lead the traitor 

oft". 
I will give orders for his fate ere long. 

(To Othoric, icho is about to speak.) 
Thou shalt not speak : I hate thy horribk' face. 
Lead him away ! [Exit Othoric «y;,f/ Guards, 
met by Petronius and Marthon, loho 
enter as they are going out. 
Pet. What prisoner is this they lead along r 
Ma. A dark assassin in mj' tent conceal'd, 
Whose daring hand ev'n now aim'd at my life. 
Pet. {casting up his eyes to heaven.) The 
life of great and "-odlike iVIahoraet ! 
It makes my blood turn cold. 

Mar. I too am stunn'd and tremble at the 

thought. 
Ma. Yes, all may tremble who in the dark 
purpose 
Have part or knowledge had. 

(Petronius and Marthon both alarmed.) 
What means my lord ? (Mahomet walks 
several times across the stage toith 
angry strides, whilst they look fear- 
fully upon one another, and then go- 
ing sternly up to them.) 
Ma. I know the base transactions of last 
night : 
Ye stufF'd my gold into the dirty palms 
Of those who shook their torches in the air, 
And cried long live brave Paleologus. 
I know it all : think ye witli upcast looks, 
And mumm'ry such as this, to blind mine 
eyes "* 
Pet. {falling on his knees.) As there's a 
God in heav'n, to you, great sultan, 
We have been true ! (Marthon kneels also.) 
Ma. Up, crouching slaves! when men so 
bred as you are 
Thus lowly kneel, my very soul abhors them. 
Pet. Your death, great monarch, were to 
Paleologus 
Triumph and safety, but to us svi'ifl ruin. 

Mar. And shall suspicions so improbable 
Fall upon us, who in your secret service 
Have dangers brav'd, and from your hands 

alone 
Look for the recompense ? 



Pet. If we last night have fail'd 

Ma. (stamping with his foot.) 1 will not 
hear you ! 

Enter Osmir. 

Osmir, know'st thou this horrible attempt? 
Osmir. I do, great prince, and bless the 
Prophefs arm 

That has preserv'd you. What base enemy 

Has arm'd the desp'rate villain? 

Ma. Petronius here and his smooth Gre- 
cian friend 

Throw accusation on the emperor. 

Osmir. This moment in your camp there 
is arrivd 

An embassage of his most lionour'd friends,. 

Sent by tlie emperor to treat of peace. 
Ma. At tins unlikely hour? 
Osmir. Yes, time now presses, and, as I 
should guess. 

The hopes of succour from those friendly 
vessels 

That vainly have attempted through your 
fleets 

To force a passage, raising short-liv'd joy 

Full soon extinguished, has to this late hour 

Delay'd their coming. 

Hope gone, they now are humbled suitors. 
Here, 

Within your power, you have the chiefest 
men 

Of the brave friends on whom he most de- 
pends ; 

This does not look like preconcerted plots 

Of secret murder, at this very hour 

To be attempted. 

Ma. No, Osmir, there is reason in thy 

words. 
Osmir. But if your highness thinks it is 
expedient, 

I will straightway arrest them. 

Ma. (after hesitating.) No, no : they are val- 
iant men, and do as such 

Claim honour from a valiant foe. Go say^ 

That by the morning's dawn they shall have 
audience ; 

The open camp, with wide-mouth'd cannoa 
clolh'd. 

And all my lofty garniture of war. 

Shall be my hall of state. Secure those men 

Until my farther orders. (Pointing to Pet- 
ronius and Marthon, and Exit, fol- 
loiPcd by Osmir. Remain Petronius 
and Marthon guarded.) 
First Guard. Come on, my masters, we'll 

conduct you safely. 
Mar. (to Petronius.; It is to plunge me in 
this dreadful gulf 

That your curs'd lessons have seduc'd my 
youth ? 
Pet. Upbraid me not. I have not for my- 
self 

A better fate reserv'd. But we are noble. 

And of high lineage ; fear not, for the sultan 

Will still respect us. 

Second Guard. Ay, so belike he will : your 
noble heads 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



315 



May with the royal scimitar be chopt, 
If he is much inclin'd to honour you. 
Some men ere now, in other sultans' days, 
Have been so honour'd. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — an open space in the camp, 

WITH THE janizaries AND TURKISH 
TROOPS DRAWN UP IN ORDER. CAN- 
NON AND WARLIKE ENGINES SEEN MIX- 
ED WITH THE TEJVTS. A FLOURISH OF 
TRUMPETS . 

Enter Mahomet, with Osmir and his train, and 
places himself in a chair of state near the front 
of the stage. Another flourish of trumpets, and 
enter Othus, Justimani, and Rodiugo, with 
a small train of Attendants, walking slowly up 
the stage. 

Ma. (to Osmir, as they come forward.) These 

men approach us with a hardy step, 
Nor wear the suppliant's humbled brow. 

Come they 
To sue or to command us.' {To Othus and 

the other deputies, who make obeisance 

to him.) 
You are permitted to declare your errand. 
If your liard-lesson'd chief, more prudent 

grown. 
Will now resign his proud imperial city 
Into the hands to whom high heaven's decree. 
And power on earth resistless, soon shall give 

it, 
I v/ill receive that which he cannot hold 
With grace and favour. 

Othus. High heaven's decrees are known 

to mortal man 
But in th' event fulfill'd] and for earth's 

power. 
The cannon flanked cohorts, and the wide 

front 
Of far extended numbers, shew it not 
To him, who in the small and secret fortress, 
E'en of one brave man's breast, more help 

discovers, 
Oft in th' astounding hour of the storm's 

pitch, 
Than in an armed host. Imperial Constan- 

tine 
Will live or die within his city's walls 
As may become their master. — Nevertheless, 

He will so far to hard necessity 

Ma. I hear no more : your words are inef- 
fectual, 
And fall as powerless as the ruffian's sword, 
Whom now, witliin my tent, your royal mas- 
ter, 
Compell'd no doubt by hard necessity, 
Has hired to murder me. 
Jus. {stepping boldly forward .) Sultan, thou 

sittest where thou safely may'st 
Say what thou wilt, therefore of all mankind 
Thou most art bound to say but what is meet. 
Put those accusing words that thou hast ut- 

ter'd 
Into the mouth of any other Turk, 
Wore he a giant's form, for in your camp 



1 know that such there be, and I will prove it. 
With this good soldier's arm, a cursed false- 
hood. 
Othus. (to Justiniani, pulling him back.) 
Thou art not wise. — Great sultan hear me 

speak. 
If any base attack upon your life 
Has been attempted, let the murd'rous villain, 
If still he breathes, be here before us brought. 
In presence of your highness we will question 

him : 
Perchance he will confess what secret foe 
Has arm'd his daring hand. 

Ma. (after giving orders to a guard in dumb 
shoto, icho immediately goes out.) 
Your suit is granted. 
Tiiese men speak boldly, vizir. 

(.iside to Osmir.) 
Osmir. (aside to Mahomet.) They shrink not 
from the proof. 
Enter Othouic fettered and guarded. 
Ma. (to Othoric.) As thou may'st hope a 
mitigated doom, 
I here command thee that thou truly answer 
Whate'er those Roman deputies demand. 

Oth. I do not hope a mitigated donm, 
And therefore, sultan, cannot be commanded : 
But if this brave man here will question me, 
(Pointing to Rodrigo.) 
For in his presence I do feel my spirit 
To manhood's height brac'd up, I'll truly an- 
swer, 
Tho' every word did in my sinews fix 
The burning pincer's tooth. 

Rod. Ha ! Othoric art thou not ? the strong 

Hungarian .'' 
Olh. (smiling.) Ay, thou rememberest my 
name — I thank thee — 
It pleases me to think thou'lt ne'er forget it. 
Ask what thou wilt, and I will answer thee ; 
Bid me do what thou wilt, and I will do it. 
Barring the hind'rance of these chains. 

Rod. Thanks to thee ! 
Then, whatsoe'er the sultan asks of thee, 
Answer him truly. He will point his ques- 
tions 
Where his suspicion points. 
Oth. I will obey. 

Ma. (sternly.) Who hired thee, thou bold 
and hard-brow 'd villain, 
Such horrid deed to do .'' 

Oth. I have been twice hired, mighty Ma- 
homet, 
To do fell deeds, in which I've lack'd perfor- 
mance. 
Ma. And who first hired thee .•' 
Oth. Thyself 
Ma. Base traitor ! 
Dar'st thou belie me to my very face .' 

Oth. That I belie thee not be this my token ; 
My hire was given to me by Petronius, 
Told from a sable bag, on whose seal'd mouth 
Thy scimitar and crescent were impress'd. 
Othus. Petronius ! 

Oth. Yes, that smooth, subtle Greek. 
Ma. He hir'd thee not to take the life of 
Constantine .' 



316 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



0th. True ; I was hir'd for wasteful insur- 
rection, 
Not for delib'rate murder. Tho' most wretch- 

ed, 
A stranger, grip'd by hard necessity. 
The price he gave nie ne'er had bought this 

arm 
To such an act. 
Ma. And who did hire thee for this second 
deed, 
Which thou must needs delib'rate murder call .-" 
0th. 'Twas Constantine. 
Jus. Thou liest, foul, artful villain ! 
Ma. Peace 1 command ! ye shall not inter- 
rupt him. 
'Twas Constantine that hir'd thee .' 

0th. Yes, great sultan I 
But not with gold, and he himself, I ween, 
Unconscious of the act. 

Ma. What did he bribe thee with ? 
0th. With that which does but seldom prove 
the means 
Of like corruption — gen'rous admiration 
Of noble manly virtue. I beheld liim. 
Like a brave stag encompass'd by base curs, 
And it did tempt me. — Otlier bribe than tliis 
Have 1 had none ; and to no mortal ear 
Did I reveal my purpose. 
(Mahomet -puts his hand on his forehead and 
seems disturbed, whilst the deputies hold up 
their hands exultinglij.) 
Rod. {to Othoric.) U for a galley mann'd 
with such as tliou art. 
Therewith to face a liundred armed ships, 
Creatur'd with meaner life ! 
Yet thou must die, brave heart ! yet thou 

must die. 
Thou hast done that which in no circumstance 
Man's hand may do, and therefore thou must 

perish. 
But I'll remember thee : thy name is Othoric ; 
I will remember thee. 
Osjnir. {to Mahomet, who covers his face 

and seems disturb' d, after a pause.) 
Your highness gives no orders to your slave 
Touching the prisoner. 
Ma. {uncovering his face angrily.) His crime 
is plain : death be his instant doom. 
Osmir. And in what mode .'' or simple or 

with pains .'' 
Ma. Distract me not. 
0th. Vizir, be not so hasty. 
I bear with me what will redeem my life, 
And gain the sultan's pardon. 

Osmir. Ah ! thinkest thou to gain him with 
tliat bribe 
Which Constantine gave thee .'' {Shaking his 
head.) 
Olh. No, not with that. I wear upon this 
arm 
A potent band, with subtile magic wrought. 
That, whercsoe'er 'tis on my body rubb'd 
With multer'd words which I alone do know, 
Maketh the part firm and invulnerable 
To sword, or bullet, or the arrow's point — 
To all offensive tilings. Believe me not, 



But see the proof. — Relieve mine arms, I 

pray, 
That 1 may shew this wonder. 

Ma. Unlock his fetters : if he tamper with 
us. 
His tortures are enhanced. 
0th. (to the gtiard who stands next him, after 
he has been unfettered, and at the same lime 
uncovering his left arm.) 
Young Turk, thou wear'st a dagger by thy 

side: 
To shew that I am made as other men, 
Of flesh and blood as soft and sensitive. 
When with no charm secur'd, thrust it, I pray 

thee 
Into this nerved flesh. Nay, do not shrink. 
For I shrink not. 

Ma. Do it, thou timid slave ! 
{The guard slightly icounds Othoric's arm with 
the point of the dagger.) 
Ot.h. You see it is an arm of flesh and 
blood ; 
And so you'll find my body in all parts. 
Thrust where you will. — But mark me ; 

wheresoe'er 
I rub this band, your weapons have no pow- 
er. 
{Opening his breast and rubbing it with a 
bracelet which he takes from his arm, at the 
same time muttering some mystical words to 
himself.) 
Now try if e'er the stoutest arm amongst you, 
With pike, or spear, or keenly-temper'd blade, 
Can pierce tiiis charmed breast. 

Ma. {to an Attendant.) Attempt it, brawny 
slave ; thine arm is strong. 
{To Osmir.) Give him a stronger weapon. — 

Now the proof! 
{TJie slave receiving a sicord from Osmir, runs 
icithfull force upon Othoric, who falls down, 
pierced through the breast, and utters a con- 
vulsive laugh as he expires.) 
Rod. {exuitingly.) O, bravely done, thou 

spirit of true proof ! 
Jus. Yes, nobly has he shunn'd the degra- 
dation 
Of slavish punishment. 

Othus. It was a lofty mind in a rude state 
Of wild distorted virtue ; cross the fancy 
It stalks a gloomy, dark, gigantic shade, 
Angel or fiend we know not. 

Ma. {aside to himself, turning gloomily a- 
way.) And .Constantine IS serv'd by 
men like these ! 
Othus. {to Mahomet.) Seeing tliat of this 
crime our royal master 
Doth clearly stand acquitted, by your word, 
Most mighty Mahomet, we are permitted 
To state his wishes. 

Ma. No, ambassadors; 
I have already said 1 hear no more 
Unless ye yield the city. — Leave ye have 
In safety to return. — You and your chief 
O'er a volcano's thinly bridged gulf 
Have ta'en your stand, and the dire crash is 
near. 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



317 



Othus. And with our chief in that tremen- 
dous ruin, 
If it must be, we will sink lovingly. 
Jus. We will sink honourably. 
Rod. We will sink gloriously. Ay, by 
heaven's liglit. 
And cheerly too, great sultan ! (Passing the 

body of Olhoric as they turn to go away.) 
Thou noble wreck, thou wert rigtr'd gallant- 

ly! 

(Exeunt Othus, Justiniani, Rodrigo, arid 

their attendants.) 
Ma. (coviing foricard tothe front of the stage, 

and standing for some timein a thoughtful 

posture much disturbed.) 
And Constantine is serv'd by men like these ! 

Osmir. (to slaves, pointing to the body of 
Othoric.) Take up the carcass of 
that savage ruffian. 
And stick it on a stake for vulture's food 

Ma. (turning round angrily.) No, reptiles ! 
let it have a soldier's grave. 

Osmir. This is exceeding mercy; ne'erthe- 
less. 
Your orders, mighty prince, shall be obey'd 
By those who are as dust beneath your feet. 

Ma. Yes, I do know that I shall be obey'd. 

By those who are 1 am begirt with 

slaves. 
(Turning away, and stampiiig on the ground 

as he walks.) 
Mine enemy is serv'd by men like these ! 
1 will give orders with all pressing speed 
That now my grand attack forthwith be 

made : 
What next may be attempted by such foes 
Who may divine. 

Osmir. That is the safest counsel. 
(ExEtiNT Mahomet, tossing his arms and mut- 
tering as he goes out.) 



ACT IV. 
Scene I. — an out-post belonging to 

THE TURKISH CAMP, WITH A VIEW OF 
THE CITY OF CONSTANTINOPLE ON THE 
BACK GROUND, SEEN IN THE DIMNESS 
OF CLOUDY MOONLIGHT. 

Enter several Turkish Soldiers by different ways, 
meeting one another. 

Firsi Turk. Ho! who are ye.' our friends .'' 
Second Turk. 1 know thy voice. 
First Turk. Yes, we are friends; but let 
us separate. 
And gain our tents as quickly as we may : 
For now thro' all the camp the busy stir 
Of warlike preparation is begun ; 
And ere the morning dawn, each armed Turk 
Must hold him ready for th' approaching day 
Of havock, blood, and spoil. Come, let us 
on ! 
Third Turk. Yes ; but, good comrades, do 
once more look back, 



And see, thro' the wan night, those buildings 

gleam 
With the last Christian fires that e'er shall 

burn 
Within those circling walls. 

Second Turk. Ay, there the Prophet has 

prepar'd our rest. 
There soon, midst heap'd-up spoils, and the 

wild wailings 
Of fetter'd beauty, in our new- won homes, 
We'll cast our reeking scimitars aside. 
And lay us down in soft and lordly sloth. 
Comrades, it is an animating sight. 
But quickly let us gain our tents. — Hush ! 

hush! 
What Turk comes prowling this way, and 

alone ? 
It looks like Mahomet. 

Fi?-st Turk. It is the sultan on his nightly 

rounds, 
Disguis'd : let us avoid him. 

'Third Turk. I'd rather cross a tiger on my 

way; 
For, as the humour hits, it may be fatal 
To know or not to know him. At the best 
We shall be deem'il but lawless strao-alers 

here : 
Let us all separate and gain our tents. 

[ExEDNT hastily, all different ways. 

Enter Mahomkt disguised, followed at a 
distance by the Vizer. 

Ma. (alone, after walking thoughtfully from 
the hottom of the stage, ichilst Osmir remains 
on the back ground.) 
What boots this restless wish ? 'tis all blank 

silence 
On that for which my greedy ears still watch. 
There's ne'er a Turk, who, o'er his ev'ning 

pipe. 
Will not far rather talk of daring feats 
By petty robbers done, than all the fame 
And grand achievements of his sov'reign lord. 
'Tis cheerless silence all ! Dull, stupid race ! 
They arm them for to-morrow's fight, 'tis 

true, 
With much alacrity, and talk of conquest. 
Carnage, and spoils; but for their sultan's 

name, 
The name of Mahomet, thro' all the caK^p 
I've scarcely heard its sound. Nay, once I 

heard it 
In accents harsh pronounc'd, but as to listen 
I nearer drew, my steps the speaker scar'd, 
And all was into fearful silence hush'd. 
Their sultan's name ! — Pest seize the stupid 

slaves ! 
O, Constantine ! it is not thus thy soldiers 
Do arm themselves for thee. 
Ho, Osmir ! art thou near me ? 

Osmir. (advancing.) Yes, my lord. 
Ma. Hast thou been list'ning too i^ 
Osmir. Yes, sultan; and I find yotir 

Mussulnien 
Their arms preparing for to-morrow's battle, 
Beneath your royal standard most determin'd 
To conquer or to die. 



318 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



They under your approving eye will fight, 
As in the sunshine of propitious heaven. 
Ma. Yes, 1 am in their minds full truly 

grown 
A thing of gcn'ral attributes compos'd — 
A heaven of sunshine or of lowering storms : 
But as a man and leader, in whom live 
The mental and corporeal qualities 
Of Mahomet Pest seize the stupid 

slaves ! 

Enter Petronius and Marthon, muffled up 
in cloaks. 

But who comes here ? twice on my rounds 

already 
Those men have cross'd me : am I known to 

them ? 
By the great Prophet they shall bear their 

secret 
Where secrets are secure ! — Ho! stop slaves 

there ' 
Stop, in the sultan's name! 
{Running upon them furioashj, and lifting his 
scimitar over the head of Petronius, who im- 
mediately discovers himself.) 
Pet. (discovering himself) Crush not a 

worm, my lord. 
Ma. A worm indeed ! What treason brincrs 

ye liere. 
Skulking, thus muffled up in dark disguise ? 
Have I not warn'd ye both that ye do live 
Beneath mine iron power in strictest faultless- 

ness .•' 
For that when ye are found but to transgress 
The galling limits of imposed duty, 
Even a hair's breadth, there abideth you 
A recompense more dreadful than torn slaves, 
Writhing in horrid ecstasy, e'er knew. 
Beware : ye have no power to serve me now, 
And unsuccessful traitors are most hateful. 

Pet. It is, great Mahomet, to make amends 
For unsuccessful services, that here 
Thou find'st us, on our way within the city 
To gain for thee some useful information 
Against to-morrow's push. Still in our power 
Some little aid remains. 

Ma. If thou say'st true, return to me again, 
Leading tiiy beauteous daughter in thy hand, 
Ere two hours pass, who siiall within my tent 
A pledge remain for thy suspicious faith 
Until the city's ta'en. — Begone, I charge you, 
And answer not again. 

[Exeunt Petronius and Marthon. 
Are all mine orders issued for the morrow .' 
To each respective officer assign'd 
His task and station .-' and my rearward troops. 
Mine axe and cord-men, they are not forgot- 
ten .•' 
Osmir. No, please your highness, nothino- 

is I'orgotten. 
And by the early dawn (j3 mixture of 

confused distant sounds heard from 

the city.) 
Ma. What sounds are these.' 
Osmir. Hast thou forgot we are so near the 

city ? 
It is- the murm'ring night-sounds of lier streets, 



Which the soft breeze wafts to thine ear, thus 

softly 
Mix'd with the chafings of the distant waves. 
Ma. (eagerly.) And let me listen too I Hove 
the sound ! 
Like the last whispers of a dying enemy 
It comes to my pleas'd ear. (Listening.) 

Spent art thou, proud imperial queen of na- 
tions, 
And thy last accents are upon the wind. 
Thou liast but one voice more to utter ; one 
Loud, frantic, terrible, and then art thou 
Amongst the nations heard no more. List ! 

list! 
I like it well ! tlie lion hears afar 
Th' approaching prey, and shakes his brist- 
ling mane. 
And lashes with his tail his tawny sides, 
And so hear I this city's nightly sound. 
Osmir. It is indeed a rich and noble con- 
quest 
Which Ilea ven unto itsfavour'd warrior gives. 
Ma. Yes, Osmir} I shall wear a conqu'ror's 
name. 
And other ages shall of Mah'met speak. 
When these dumb slaves are crumbling in the 

dust. 
But now the night wears on, and witli the 

dawn 
Must the grand work begin. 
Yet one thing still remains ; I must remind 

thee 
That to my gen'ral orders this be added : — 
Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor 

trump, 
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 
Our near approach betray : silent and soft, 
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 
Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her 
prey. 
Osmir. I have already given the strictest 

orders. 
Ma. Then all is well : go where thy duty 
calls. 
In the mean while I'll snatch an hour of rest, 
And dream, perhaps, that lovely Grecian 

dames. 
Even with a crowned beauty in their band. 
Are lowly bent to kiss my purple feet. 

(Ji distant bell heard from the city.) 
What deep and distant bell is this which 

sounds 
So solemnly on the still air of night ? 

Osmir. It comes from St Sophia's lofty 
dome. 
Where Constantine, with liis small band of 

friends. 
As I have learnt, should at this hour assem- 
ble. 
To join together in religious rites 
Of solemn preparation for to-morrow. 
Which they regard as their last day of life. 
And this as their last act of social brother- 
hood. 
Ma. Brave men ! do they so meet.' 

(Pausing.) 
But it must be. 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



319 



Why should it move me ? Heaven decrees 

their doom : 
I act by high commission, tho' for instruments 
I have but these dumb slaves. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a pillared aisle ok open 

SPACE IN THE CHURCH OF ST. SOPHIA, 
WITH OTHER PARTS OF THE CHURCH 

( SEEN IN PERSPECTIVE. THE GREAT 

.. BELL HEARD. 

Enter Heugho', met by an inferior Priest. 
Priest. Thou coni'st before thy master and 
his friends : 
How far are they behind ? 
Heu. Not many paces. 

(Bell soujids again.) 
Priest. Werefore did'st thou start ? 
Heu. It smote mine ear most strange and 
dolefully. 
Is there soul in its sound which sadly says, 
It is the last bell that shall Christians warn 
To holy rites within these fated walls .' 
How many hundred years this sacred pave- 
ment 
Has with the tread of Christian feet been 
Worn ! 

And now Heaven's will be done ! 

Priest. So must we say, if that our turn be 
come. 
We are a wicked and luxurious race, 
And we have pull'd this ruin on our heads. 
Heu. But there are those who needs must 
fall b.'^neath it. 
Whose noble worth deserv'd a better fate. 
Priest. Think ye the grand assault will be 

so soon .■" 
Heu. 'Tis so believ'd : and see where now 
they come. 
In gen'rous love and brotherhood united, 
Who shall, perhaps, no more see evening's 

close. 
Or under social roof of living men 
E'er meet again. 

Priest. Nay, do not weep, good Heugho ; 
For in that blessed place they shall be join'd 
Where great and good men meet. — But I nmst 

haste 

To give my brethren notice. [Exit. 

Enter Constantine, with Othus, Rodrigo, 

JusTiNiANt,and other ofhis friends, who walk 

with solemn steps and bareheaded towards the 

front of the stage, the great bell sounding for 

the last time as they advance. Constantine 

then stops, and stretching out his arm as if he 

'; wished to speak, they all gather respectfully 

round him. 

Constan. My friends, there greatly presses 
on my heart 
Somewhat I've much desir'd to say to you, 
If a full heart will grant mo so much voice. 
Othus. Then speak it, royal sire, we all 
attend 
With ears of love and most profound respect. 
Constan. Thus station'd on a dark and aw- 
ful verge. 
In company with you, my noble friends, 



I have desired, in this solemn act. 

To make my peace with God. But, on my soul, 

if any unforgiven wrong to man 

Yet rests, how shall I lilt my hands to him 

Who has made all men, and who cares for all. 

As children of one grand and wond'rous house, 

Wherein the mightiest monarch of the earth 

Holds but a little nook .-" 

I have been one, plac'd on a giddy height 

Of seeming greatness, therefore liable. 

In nature's poor infirmity, to acts 

Of blind and foolish pride. I have been one 

In nmch real feebleness, upheld, defended. 

By voluntary aid and gen'rous zeal 

Of valiant strangers owing me no service, 

And therefore liable, in the mind's v^^eakness, 

Its saddest weakness, to ungrateful thoughts 

Tinctur'd with jealousy. If towards you, 

My nnble friends, I have contracted guilt, 

I trust — I know — I beg — what shall 1 say .'' 

Your gen'rous hearts to all your deeds of love 

Will add a last forgiveness. 

Othus. O no, most royal Constantine ! tons 
And to all men thou'st ever worthy been. 
Noble and gracious ; pardon at our hands 
Thou necdest none. 

Omncs. O no, thou needest none ! 
As we to thee have faithful followers been, 
Thou'st ever been to us a gen'rous lord. 
Constan. Your love would make it so : 
would that, indeed, 
A voice within me seal'd its fair report ! 
Alas ! it doth not ; therefore now indulge me. 
If there be one amongst you, unto whom. 
With dark forbidding brow, in a stern moment, 
I've given ungen'rous pain ; one whose kind 

service, 
I have with foolish and capricious humours. 
More irksome made ; one whose frank open- 
ness 
Of manly love, offer'd to me as man 
In gen'rous confidence, with heartless pride 
I coldly have rcpell'd ; yea, if there be 
One of you all that ever from my presence 
I have with saddcn'd heart unkindly sent, 
I here, in meek repentance, of him crave 
A brothers liand, in token of forgiveness j 
And be it in true charity stretch'd forth, 
As to a man of much infirmity. 
Who has with many trials been beset. 
Wounding oft-times in bitterness of soul 
Tiie love he should have honour'd. 
What ! is there none that will to me hold out 
The palm of charity .' 

Then I'll embrace ye all, and, with eas'd heart, 
Believe myself forgiven. {Embracing them 
all as they croicd affectionately to him 
and coming last to Rodrigo.) 
And thou, my bold Rodrigo, who canst brave 
The tempests when they rage, and onward 

bear. 
With the opposed strength of towering navies 
Black'ning before thee, com'st tlion to my 

breast 
In soft forgiving love .'' I know tliou dost. 
Rod. Ay, in that love that would forgive to 
thee 



320 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



The sum of all thy sins, tho' multiplied 
Ten thousand thousand fold. — 
That would do in thy service — O cursed limit ! 
That there should be what to man's sinew'd 

slrenirlh, 
In all the burning zeal of righteous boldness, 
Impossible is. 

(Clenching his hands vehemently.) 
Othus. (to Rodrigo ) Cease ! dost thou not 

respect these holy walls ? 
Eod. I do respect them, Othus ; ne'er a 
head, 
Shorn to the scalp, doth bow itself more hum- 
bly 
Before heaven's throne than mine, albeit, in 

truth 
My words unseemly are. 

Constan. Come to my lieart, my friend ! 
He reigns above 
Who will forgive us both. (Embraces 

Rodrigo, and thenobssrvingHexxgho, 
%ohu has stood behind, not presuming 
to approach him with the rest.) 
But tlierc is one who stands from me aloof 
With modest backwardness, unto whose char- 
ity 
I must be debtor also. Worthy Heugho, 
Since earliest youth I from thy friendly hand 
Have daily kindly offices rcceiv'd, 
Proffei'd with love, exceeding far all duty 
Belonging to thy state ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
I once, in a most vile and fretful mood, 
Vex'd with cross things, thine honour'd age 
forgot. 
Heu. Oh, say not so, my dear and royal 
master. 
It breaks my heart that you should still re- 
member. 
Constan. Well, well, be not thus mov'd my 
worthy Heugho, 
I know 1 am forgiv'n ; but lay thy hand, 
Thine aged hand, upon thy master's head. 
And give him a last blessing. Thou art now 
Like to an ancient father with us grown. 
And my heart says that it will do me good. 
(Bowijig his head, whilst Heugho, lifting up 
his aged ha)ids over him, is unahlc to speak, 
hut bursts into tear?, and falls upon his mas- 
ter's neck. The band of friends close round 
and conceal them : aftcrioards they open to 
make way, and Coustantine comes forward 
with a firm enlightened countenance.) 
And now, my noble friends, it pleases me 
To think we all are l^nit in holy bands 
Of fellowship ; prepar'd, in_virtue's strength. 
Nobly to fight on earth, or meet in heaven. 
Othus. Yes, Constantine, we to each other 
will 
True brothers prove, and to our noble chief 
Devoted followers, whate'er betide. 
What say yo, valiant friends ? 
nines. All, all of us ! 
Constan. I know you will, full well 1 
knov/ you will. 
Oh, that in earth it had been granted me 
Your gen'rous love to've recompens'd I alas ! 
Ye can but share with me 



Omnes. No other recompense. 
But sharing fates with thee, our noble chief, 
Do we desire, and on thy royal hand 
Here will we seal it. 

Constan. (eagerly preventing them as they 

arc about to kneel and kiss his 

hands.) Forbear 1 forbear! within 

these sacred walls 
Bend before worthless man the humble knee ! 
Fye , let no such shame be ! 
Am I your chief? then be it shewn in this, 
That to the mighty Majesty of heaven 
I humbly bow, more lowly than ye all, 
And do, on your behalf, devoutly beg 
The blessing of our Master and our Sire. 
(Kneeling and hoicing his head very low to 
the ground, then rising afterwards with 
dignified solemnity.) 
Now to those sacred rites of our blest faith, 
In which the humble soul ennobled bows, 
In mem'ry of the dearest brothership 
That ever honour'd man, I lead you on, 
My noble brothers. (Exeunt Constantine, 

<^c. by another aisle, which may be 

supposed to lead to the altar of the 
church, lohilst several priests are seen 

at a distance in their robes, as if wait' 

ing to receive them.) 

Scene III. — a hall, or anti-room in 

THE IMPERIAL PALACE. 

Enter Petronius and Marthon disguised. 

Pet. So far hath this well-counterfeited 
signet. 
And this disguise, befriended us : here stop : 
Whilst Constantine and his mad band are 

absent 
On their religious ceremony, here 
We will remain conceal'd until that Ella, 
Returning, (for 'tis near her wonted time. 
As they have told uiij from Valeria's cham- 
ber. 
Shall give us fair occasion, — Rouse thee, 

Marthon ; 
Tliou seem'st like one bereaved of all sense ; 
What is the matter with thee ? 

Mar. Nothing ; but thus to pass with cul- 
prit feet 
Beneath the shade of night, these well-known 

courts 
Which 1 so oft have trod in front of day. 
With the firm footsteps of an honest man. 

Doth make me 

Pet. Fye ! thou art become a fool. 
Shake off such weakness : we're compell'd 

to this. 
We shall beneath the sultan's iron sway, 
Disgrac'd from the late failure of our plots, 
Live like lash'd slaves, if the bewitching 

beauty 
Of my young Ella come not to our aid 
To benil his rugged nature. Strong in her. 
We shall not merely safe protection find, 
But highest favour and authority ; 
And tho' by stealth I needs must bear her 
hence. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



321 



Bein^ my daughter, I, in nature's right 

Mar. Hush ! now I hear a lightly-sound- 
ing step. 
Draw back a little space. {They step aside, 
whilst Ella enters, and walks across 
the stage.) 
Pet. (in a half voice, stealing softly up to 

her.) Ella! 

Ella, (starting.) What voice is that which 

names me ! 
Pet. Ella! 
Eliq. O ! 'tis the sound that 1 most dread 

to hear ! 
Pet. Say'st thou so, Ella, of thy father's 
A^oice .' 
Have my misfortunes, with the world's fair 

favour, 
Depriv'd me also of my only child ? 

Ella, ^o, no I they have not: had misfor- 
tune only 
Cast its dark shade upon thee, I had lov'd 

thee 
And cherish'd thee in a lone desert, father. 

But — but thou art 

Pet. Ha ! wherefore dost thou pause ! 
What would 'st thou say.' what is there in 
thy mind .■' 
Ella. Thoughts which I will not utter. — 
Oh, depart! 
Thou'rt not in safety. All men do condemn 

thee. 
Thou'rt not come for good. — Oh, fly from 

hence ! 
Ruin, and shame, and death abide thee here : 
Oh, fly, my wretched father. 
Pet. Yes, I will fly, but thou shalt go with 
me ; 
If not, 1 will remain and meet my fate. 

Ella. Good heaven forbid ! thou'lt drive 
me to distraction. 
O misery ! (icringing her hands in great dis- 
tress, ichilst Marthon advances to Pet- 
ronius with supplicating look .) 
Pet. Away I thou art a fool : we must be 
firm. (To Marthon.) 

Wring not thy hands thus wildly, simple 

maid : 
Thou goest to be with me no wand'ring out- 
law. 
But one in splendour greater than a queen : 
The favour'd mistress of the mighty sultan. 

(To Ella.) 
(Ella gives aloud shriek, and struggles to get 
from him.) 

Enter Rodrigo. 

Rod. Audacious villain ! quit thy cursed 
hold, 
Or take death for thy pains. 
Ha ! thou shrink'stback, and mufilest up thy 

face. 
Say who thou art, or thro' thy villain's heart 
I'll thrust this rapier. 

Ella, (pulling Rodrigo back.) Hold, 1 do 
beseech thee ! 
For pity, hold ! it is my wretched father. 
Rod. Wretched indeed ! 
40 



Elia. Ay, therefore pity him. 
Let him escape : he hath done me no harm. 
He is here as a fox in his last wiles. 
Who shelter seeks within the very kennel 
O' the rous'd pack : Oh, have some pity on 

him ! 
He is my father. 

Rod. Sweet Ella, hang not thus upon mine 
arm : 
It hath no power to strike whom thou call'st 

father. 
Shame as he is unto that honour'd name. 
But there are ties upon me, gentle maid : 
The safety and the interests of Constantine 
1 am bound to defend : and shall a traitor 

Ella. Oh ! oh ! 

Rod. Fear not : our royal master is return'd 
From blessed rites of holiest charity 
With meekly chasten'd soul : whate'er his 

crimes 
He is in safety — safety as assured 
As thine own harmless self. 

Enter Constantine. 

Constan. (to Rodrigo.) Thou speak'st with 
an unwonted earnestness ; 

I've mark"d thy gestures; something moves 
thee much. 

Who are these strangers ? ( Turning to Petro- 
nius and Marthon, who, uncovering 
their faces, stand confessed before 
him.) 

Ha ! Marthon and Petronius ! What new 
treason 

Is now on foot, that here but judge 1 

harshly .' 

Ye are, perhaps^ struck with the circumstan- 
ces 

Of these most solemn times, repentant grown, 

And if ye be in a good hour ye come ; 

I am myself a wean'd and pardon'd man. 

Marthon, thou once wert wont to speak the 
truth ; 

What brought ye hither .'' 
Mar. Most gracious prince, with no repent- 
ant mind 

We hither came ; but one of us, at least. 

Shall hence depart with a heart deeply smit- 
ten. 
Constan. Confess then what new treason ye 

devised. 
Ella. No treason ; none to thee most royal 
Constantine. 

Forme he came, arm'd with a parent's right, 

To bear me to the haughty sultan's camp. 

To live in queenly state. But, Oh protect me ! 

Let me remain and die with those I love 

In decent maiden pride. Retain me here. 

But pardon him : no treason brought him 
hither. 
Constan. Petronius, has thy daughter told 
me true .'' 

Was this thine errand .' 
Pet. (approachi7ig Consta,ntine.) Yes, most 

gracious prince. 
Constan. Off then, disgrace to nature and 
to manhood I 



322 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Would'st thou to shameful and degrading 
slavery 

Betray thy virtuous child ? Say thou cam'st 
hither 

To thrust i' the dark thy dagger thro' my 
heart, 

And I will call the sinless. 
Pet. Wherefore this stern and bitter execra- 
tion ? 

I came to place her but a few hours sooner, 

Sav'd from th' approaching storm, where 
your high dames, 

Yea, with their royal mistress at their head, 

Full shortly shall be placed. 

Constan. Detested wretch ! what fiend has 
whisper'd to thee 

Such hideous thoughts .'' man durst not utter 
them. 
Pet. Man might, at least, surveying the 
position 

And aspect of these times, in his own mind 

This plain and shrewd conjecture form. But 
not 

On such loose bottom do I ground my 
words ; 

Mah'met himself hath sworn that your Vale- 
ria 

Shall at the head of his most favour'd wives — 
Constan. Hold thy detested tongue ! for one 
word more 

Is instant death. Tempt me not with these 
hands, 

Which hath the symbols touch'd of blessed 
peace. 

To do a horrible act. 

Pet. I but repeat that which the sultan 
hath 

In public said. 

Constan. Forbear ! forbear ! I tell thee. 
(IVrenching his sicord, scabbard and 
all, from his side, and tossing it from 
him.) 

There ! there ! Rodrigo : cast it from my 
reach : 

Let not a weapon be within my grasp, 

Or I shall be accursed. (After a violent strug- 
gle of passion.) 

I dare speak to him now. — Ho ! guards with- 
out! 
Ella. Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 

Enter Guards. 

Constan. {to Guards.) Take these two men, 
Petronius and his friend, 
And through the city to our utmost post 
Conduct them safely : there, in perfect liber- 
ty, 
Permit them to depart where'er they list. 
{To Petronius.) Now, I'm revenged upon 

thee : get thee hence, 
And utter not a word. — Go thou, Rodrigo, 
And with the gentle Ella in thy hand, 
Conduct them to tlie palace gate. Hence 
quickly .' 
Mar. Nay, let Petronius go: I will remain. 
And with the meanest soldier on your walls 
Spend my last blood, if a true penitent 



Constan. (leaving him off impatiently. )'Well, 
be it as thou wilt : but hence and 
leave me ! 
Rod. {to Ella, as he leads her out.) Did I not 
tell thee he was safe, my Ella.' 
[Exeunt all but Constantine, loho , after walk- 
ing up and doicn for some time in a per- 
turbed manner , starts at the sound q/" Valeria's 
voice ivithout.) 

Constan. Ha ! here she comes ! alas ! how 
shall I now 
Look on her face, and hear her voice of 

love ! 
It is distraction ! 

Enter Valeria. 

Vol. My Constantine, art thou so long 
re turn 'd, 
And yet to me no kindly summons sent, 
Long as I've watch'd for it .■' — What is the 

matter .' 
Thy brow is dark : these are disturbed looks : 
What is the matter .' 

Constan. Nothing, nothing. 
I am, thou know'st, with many cares perplex'd. 
Follow me to thine own apartment ; here 
1 cannot speak to thee. 

Val. {aside, looking eagerly at him, as they 
go out.) What may this be .'' 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Valeria's apartment. 

Enter Constantine, followed by Valeria, 
who remain silent for some time, she lookmg 
anxiously with wistful expectation. 

Val. Now we are here, my lord, in the 
still privacy 
Of this my inmost bower ; but thou art silent. 
{Pauses, and he is still silent.) 
There is a look of sadness on thy face 
Of disturb'd wretchedness, that never yet, 
Ev'n in thy darkest hours, I've seen thee 

wear: 
Why art thou thus ? 

Constan. And dost thou ask.' I've been, in 
deep humility. 
Making a sinner's peace with God and man, 
And now and now {His voice falter- 
ing.) 
Val. What would you say, ray lord .' 
Constan. And now I am with thee. 
Val. And art thou sad for this .' hast thou 
not still, 
Loose from all shackles of imposed state, 
Been with me in thine hours of joy or grief, 
Like a way-faring man, who, sitting down 
On the green bank, his cumb'rous vestment 

opens 
To the soft breeze .' 

Constan. Yes, my Valeria j I have been 
with thee 
As with a true yoke heart, so strong in love 
That ev'n the thought which scudded o'er 

my mind 
With culprit's speed from shameful conscious- 
ness, 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



323 



Was not from thee conceal'd 
But now the hour is come, when ev'n with thee 
I must perform a task — a task of pain. 
Vol. Speak ; what mean'st thou ? 
Constan. lAll have, ev'n in the dearest 
intercourse 
Of heart with lieart, in some untoward mo- 
ment 
Transgressors been, and prov'd the cause of 

pain 
Where most they should have banish'd it : 

and all, 
In quitting earthly ties, do anxiously 
Desire, in the true blessing of forgiveness, 
To part with those whom they have held 

most dear. 
Now dost thou understand me ? {Holding out 
both his hands to her.) 
, Val. I do ! I do ! thou hast my dearest 
blessing. 
The dearest thoughts and worship of my 

heart. 
But oh ! what dost thou say .-' — part ! — how, 

my Constantine ! 
Where dost thou go .'' thou dost not leave the 
city .'' 
Ckmstan. No, love, but on its wall I go ere 
long, — 
For in a little hour the day will break 
Which must its fate decide, — that part to act. 
Which, before God and man, in honest pride, 
I'm call'd on to perform. 

Val. But from those walls victorious thou'lt 
return. 

(Constantine smiles sorroicfully .) 
Nay, but thou shalt return : high Heav'n de- 
crees it ; 
Virtue, and every good and blessed thing 
Have made it sure. Ev'n in a faith as strong 
As at this moment I do hold to this, 
Methinks, upon the chard and tossing waves 
Of the wild deep 1 could thus firmly tread, 
Nor wet my sandal's thong. 
(Walking across the stage with firm steps of 
stately confidence, and then going up to him 
with an encouraging smile.) 
Be thou assur'd ! 

I know it shall be so. A mystic sage, 
Whom I, unknown to thee, have visited — 
Pardon this weakness of thine anxious wife — 
Darting his eye on forms of woven air. 
Saw thee in combat with a Turkish champion. 
And saw the crescent fall. 

Constan. And may'st thou not believe, that 
ere they close 
Their mortal warfare, many a boastful Turk 
Beneath these arms shall fall ? 

Val. Ay, but on surer words I rest my faith ! 
For I did bid him onward cast his eye 
Into time's reach, and say, who of this city. 
After the course of twelve revolving moons, 
Should be the sov'reign lord ; and he replied. 
In plain and simple words, thy lord and hus- 
band. 
Constan. And nam'd he Constantine ? 
Val. What other name but that of Constan- 
tine 



Could to these appellations be conjoin'd .' 
Thou turnest from me with perturbed looks : 
Thou shalt not turn away -. tell me ! O, tell 

me ! 
What sudden thought is this that troubles 

thee .' 
( Catching hold of him eagerly as he turns from 
her.) 

Constan. Ask not ; Oh, do not ask ! 'tis 
pass'd already 
As shoots a glaring meteor 'thwart the night, 
Frightful but hasty. 

Val. Thou must tell it me. 
Constan. Distract me not. 
Val. Nay, nay, but thou must tell me. 
What other name but that of Constantine 
Could to my lord and husband joined be ? 
Constan. {sinking doion upon a chair quite 
overcome, and covering his face with his 
hands as he speaks with a quick perturbed 
voice.) 
Mahomet ! Mahomet ! 

(Valeria steps back from him,, holding up her 

hands in amazement ; then he, after a pause, 

looking up to her with a self -upbraiding eye.) 

I have offended in this very hour 

When my press'd soul sigh'd for that loving 

peace 
Which in its earthly close the soul desires. 
I have offended. 

Val. Yes, thou hast offended. 
All the offences thou hast ever done me 
Are in this fell and cruel stroke compris'd; 
And any other stroke, compared to this. 
Had fall'n upon me lightly. 

Constan. It was a thought that hasted fast 
away. 
And came unbidden. (Going up to her peni- 
tently.) 
Val. {turning aioay in anger,) There is no 
thought doth ever cross the mind 
Till some preceding kindred sentiment 
Hath made a patli-way for it. 

Constan. Yes, my Valeria, thou indeed 
say'st true ; 
But turn not from me angrily. My mind, 
Ere now, consider'd has the character, 
The faith, the power of Mahomet. — Frown 

not. — 
Valeria thou art fair. — Nay, do not frown ! 
Val. What dost thou say ! liast thou until 
this moment 

Reserv'd for me this base degrading No : 

Torn and defaced by every hated form 

Of outward grace ! it is our curse, our shame ! 

{Tearing her hair violently.) 

Constan. O be not thus ! — forgive a hasty 
thought ! 
Think how e, doating husband is distracted. 
Who knows too well a lawless victor's power. 
Val. What is his power ! it naught regard- 

eth me. 
Constan. Alas ! the frowns of a detesting 
bride , 

Deter him not ! 

Val. {smiling contemptumisly .'' But will he 
wed the dead ? 



324 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Constan. (starting.) What say'stthou? Oh, 
what meaning is there here ! 
Yes, yes ! 1 know it all ! but it is dreadful : 
It makes the cold chill o'er my limbs to creep : 
It is not well : it is not holy. No ! 

no, my noble love, mine honour'd love ! 
Give to thy fallen lord all that the soul 

To widow'd love may give, but oh stop there ? 
Heav'n will protect thee in the hour of need; 
And for the rest, erase it from thy thoughts, 
Give it no being there. 

Val. It hath no being there. Heav'n will 
protect me : 
And he who thinks me helpless thinks me 
mean. 
Constan. 1 think thee all that e'er was ten- 
anted 
Of noblest worth in loveliest female form : 
By nature excellent, defective only 
In this, that fortune has thy virtues link'd 
To the vex'd spirit of a ruin'd man. 
Who in his hours of anguish has not priz'd 

them 
As did become their worth. 

Val. {rushing into his arms.) No, thou hast 
priz'd them. 
In thy blind love, far, far beyond their worth. 
My uncurb'd passions have, alas ! too oft 
Vexation added to that burden'd heart 

1 should have cheer'd and lighten'd : on my 

head 
Rests all the blame that e'er between us pass'd, 
And I alone have need to be forgiven. 
(They loeep on one another's necks xcithout 
speaking, lohen an alarm hell is heard at a 
distance, and Constantino breaks suddenly 
from her.) 
Constan. It is the 'larum of my farther 

watch. 
Vol,. I scarcely heard it, art thou sure of 
it.' 

(Ji second alarm bell heard nearer.) 
Constan. And hark! a nearer tower repeats 
the sound. 
The enemy's in motion. — I must arm, 
And instantly. 

Val. Then let me be with thee till the last 
moment. 
I have a holy relick of great power; 
It is, I trust, worth all thine arms beside ; 
And from this hand of love thou shalt receive 
it. 
Constan. (smiling sorrowfully.) Tlianks, 
sweet Valeria ! from thy hand of love 
I will with love receive whate'er thou wilt. 
(^ third alarm bell is heard still louder, and 

enter Mtendanls in haste.) 
Yes, yes, 1 iicard it ; go, prepare mine arms. 
\_To Attendants, and Exeunt. 

Scene V. — a spacious hall in the pa- 
lace. 

Enter Roduigo, with Ella hanging fondly upon 
him, and continue their way as iC intending to 
pass through it, when a trumpet sounds with- 
out, and they stop short. 



Rod. It is the sound that summons us to 

meet: 
There is no farther grace : therefore, sweet 

Ella, 
My pretty Ella, my good loving Ella, 
My gentle little one that hang'st upon me 
With sucli fond hold, in good sooth we must 

part, 
Here bid Heav'n bless me, and no farther go. 
Ella. Must it be so.' 1 will bid Heaven 

bless thee, 
And all good saints watch o'er thy preciou» 

life; 
And they will bless and guard thee in the 

hour 
Of fearful death. In this I have true faith ; 
But, on the very brink, to hold thee thus 
Clasp'd in my grasp, and think how soon — 

Alas! 
From many points will fly the whizzing balls, 
And showering darts, and jav'lins sent afar, 
Aim'd by fell strength ; wilt thou escape all 

this .? 
Rod. Fear not, sweet Ella ! whizzing balls 

there be 
That, in midway, are from their course declin'd 
By the poor orphan's little lisj>ed ])rayer ; 
And there be arrows that are turn'd aside. 
In their swift flight, by the soft sighs of love. 
Unheard of earthly ears. This is a creed. 
In the good faith of which poor seamen climb 
Their rocking masts, in the full roar of battle, 
And we'll believe it. 

Ella. It is a blessed one : I would believe it. 
Rod. Yes, we'll believe it. Whilst our 

battle roars, 
Thou'l think of me in thy lone distant tower, 
And be to me a gallant armed mate. 
With prayers and wishes striving powerfully. 
Give me thy hand : we will not weep and 

wail : 
We will part cheerfully .--God bless thee, Ella ! 
Nay, hang not on me thus. 
Thou lov'st a brave man : be thou valiant 

then. 
As suits a brave man's love. 

Ella. O no ! I've fondly fix'd myself upon 

thee, 
Most worthless and unsuited to thy worth. 
Like a poor weed on some proud turret's brow, 
I wave, and nod, and kiss the air around thee, 
But cannot be like thee. 

Rod. Heav'n bless thee, little flower! I 

prize thee more 
Than all the pride of female stateliness. 
Ella. Dost thou .' then I am happy : I am 

proud : 
I will not wish me other than I am. 

Rod. Ah, if we part not instantly, my Ella, 
I feel in faith, rude as my nature is, 
I soon shall be like thee!— My friends ap- 
proach : 
Let us not meet their gaze — It must be so — 
Sweet one, farewell ! — Wilt thou still cling to 

me ? 
Ella. O no, I go : they sliall not see tliee 

weep, 



CONST ANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A 'I'RAGEDY. 



326 



Tho' I do bless thee for it. 

Rod. {leading her hastily hatk to the door by 
which they entered.) Wellthen, brave 
lass, upon thy lovely head 
Heaven's favour rest ! — Nay, do not speak to 

me. 
(Preventing her as she is endeavouring to 

speak.) 
Farewell! farewell! [Exit Ella, a«rf Ae ^c^Mn^s 
to the front of the stage, ichere he 
stands musing sorroicfully ; when en- 
ters to hivi Justiniani, and, going up 
to him, touches his shoulder.) 
What dost thou want .■' {Turning angrily.) 
Jus. Thou'rt thoughtful. 
Rod. No, I think as others do 
With such day's work before them, in good 

truth. 
Not passing merrily. 
Jjis. From the high tower I've seen th' ap- 
proaching foe : 
It seems a dark and strangely -mixed mass 
Of life, wide moving in the misty light 
Of early dawn. — I've fought in many a field, 
As valiant men and armed warriors fight. 
But such a strange assemblage of new modes 
Of mingled war as we this day must face, 
I never yet encounter'd. 

Rod. Well, we shall know the scent and 
flavour of it 
When we have tasted it. 
Ju£. We shall be smother'd up with the 
mean press 
Of worthless matter, as a noble steed, 
Beneath the falling rafters of his shed 
Ignobly perishes. 

Rod. Fear not, proud soul; we shall have 
men to fight, 
And room enough in some nook ofthe breach 
To grapple with them too. 

Jus. Good fortune ever shone on thee, 
Rodrigo : 
Thou still hast been a bold careering bark. 
Outriding ev'ry storm. If thou shouldst e'er 
Again return to our dear native land. 
Tell to my countrymen whate'er thou know'st 
Pertaining to my fate this fateful day : 
Let me not be forgotten. 

Rod. I will, my friend: but better fate than 
thine 
I look not for, tho' still I bear myself 
As one assur'd of good. — Thou'rt dark and 

gloomy — 
Does aught rest on thy mind .' 

Jus. {striding aicay from him gloomily.) 
No, nothing, nothing ! 

{Ji trumpet sounds without.) 
Rod. Ay, hark, another of our gallant band 
Has join'd us with his followers. 

{.Inother trumpet sounds.) 
And now another : are they all assembled .' 

Enter OxHus.andseveral ofthe imperial Friends. 
Othus. On their high wooden turrets, and 
huge beams 
Of warlike engines, rais'd aloft in air. 
Gleams the first light of this high-fated day ; 



And, wide expanded, thro' the farther mists 
Moves the dark Turkish host. 
Thou'rt a tried soul, Rodrigo, I but new 
To such tremendous, strange expectancy : 
Now is the hour when the soul knows itself. 
{Rising on tiptoe with a conscious smile.) 
Rod. Ay, Othus, thou dost wear the coun- 
tenance 
Of a true man : give me thine honest hand. 
Are all our friends assembled .' 

{Trumpet sounds.) 
Othus. This says they are ; and here comes, 
last of all. 
Our northern friends. 

Enter more ofthe Friends. 

Now we are all assembled. Constantine, 
He also comes ; and sadly by his side. 
In mournful dignity, moves his high dame, 
Proudly contending with her woman's heart. 

Enter Constantine and Valeria, attended. 

Con. {returning the general salute of the 
chiefs.) Good morrow, noble brothers 
and brave leaders : 
Are we all here conven'd .' 

Othus. Yes, our gieat chief and brother: 
of your friends 
There lacks not one. 

Constan. Then to their love, so help me, 
Miglity power. 
Who hold'st within thy grasp the souls of men ! 

Neither shall we be lacking Now, Valeria. 

{Drawing himself up with a jnoitd but tender 
smile, r/s if to encourage her to behave nobly.) 
Val. I understand that smile. 
Here with thy gen'rous friends, whose love 

to thee 
Most dearly celled in my heart I wear, 
And unto whom I have desired much, 
Before we part, these grateful thanks to pay — 
{Making grateful obeisance to the chiefs.) 
Here to those noble friends, and to God's 
keeping, 

I leave thee. Yet, be it permitted me — 

For that thy noble head and lib'ral brow 
Have ever cheer'd me as my star of day. 
Blessings and blessings let me pour upon 

them ! 
{Putting her hand upon his head fervently and 

kissing his forehead.) 
For that thy gen'rous breast has been the hold 
Of all my treasur'd wishes and dear thoughts, 
This fond embrace. {Embracing him.) 

Yea, and for that thou art 
My sire, and sov'reign, and most honour'd 

lord. 
This humble homage of my heart receive. 

{Kneeling and kissing his hand.) 
Constan. {raising and embracing her with 
great emotion.) No more, ray dearest 
and most noble love ! 
Spare me, O spare me ! Heaven be thy pro- 
tection ! 
Farewell ! 

Vol. Farewell! 



326 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



(Valeria is led off by her Attendants, ichilst Con- 
stantine continues looking sadly after her for 
some time, then turning to his friends, who 
gather about him, irithout saying a word, they 
go all off' the stage together in profound si- 
lence.) 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — an open space near the 

WALLS OF THE CITY, WITH HALF- 
RUIN'd houses on EACH SIDE, AND A 
ROW OP ARCHED PILLARS THROWN 

1 ACROSS THE MIDDLE OF THE STAGE, 
AS IF IT WERE THE REMAINS OF SOME 
RUINED PUBLIC BUILDING : THROUGH 

i WHICH IS SEEN, IN THE BACK-GROUND, 
A BREACH IN THE WALLS, AND THE 
CONFUSED FIGHTING OF THE BESIEGED, 
ENVELOPED IN CLOUDS OF SMOKE AND 
DUST. 

The noise of artillery, the battering of engines, 
and the cries of the combatants heard as the cur- 
tain draws up, and many people discovered on 
the front of the stage, running about in great 
hurry and confusion, and some mounted upon 
the roofs of the houses overlooking the battle. 

Voice {calling from the wall.) See I set; ! 

how, cluster'd on each other's backs, 

Tliey mount like swarming bees, or locusts 

hnk'd 
In bolt'ring heaps ! Pour fire upon their head ! 
Second Voice. Cast down huge beams upon 

them ! 
Third Voice. Hurl down the loosen'd frag- 
ments of our wall ! 
Fourth Voice. Ho ! more help here ! more 
stones ! more beams ! more fire ! 
Weapons are useless now. 

First Voice. See how that giant Turk, like 
an arch fiend, 
Climbs on yon living mountain of curv'd 

backs ! 
He gains the wall ! O hurl him headlong 

down ! 
He is hurl'd down ! 

(A great shout from the besieged ) 

Second Voire. Send to the emperor or to 

Rodrigo : 

They on their difTrent stations hold it bravely ; 

This is the weakest pomt. Ho ! send for aid ! 

[Exeunt several soldiers from the loalls as if 

running for succour. The noise of ar tiller y, 

<^-c. is heard as before, and aftericards a loud 

crash as of some building falling . 

Enter many people in great terror from the walls 
running off by the front of the stage different 
ways, and enter at the same time, Constan- 
TINE and some of his friends, who stop them. 

Vonstan. Turn, turn ! O turn, my friends ! 
another push ! 
Let us still stop the breach, or fall like men. 



Enter Justiniani from the walls with a hasty 
and disordered step, pale and writhing with 
pain. 

Merciful Heav'n ! do mine eyes serve me 

truly .' 
Justiniani, with pale haggard face, 
Retiring from his post ! 
Where are you going, chief? 

{Slopping him sternly.) 
Jus. Where nature, urg'd beyond the pith 
of nature , 
Compels me. Midst yon streams of liquid 

fires, 
And hurling ruins and o'erwhelming mass 
Of things unknown, unseen, uncalculable, 
All arms and occupation of a soldier 
Are lost and turn'd to naught : man's strength 

is naught : 
The fangs of hell are in my new-torn flesh ; 
I nmst on for a space and breathe fresh air. 
Constan. Go to! this moment is the quiv'- 
ring ridge 
That stands between our success or our 

ruin : — 
The sight of thy turn'd back from their screw'd 

pitch 
Will turn more hearts than all the pressing 

foe : 
Thou must not go. 

Jus. I am a mortal man : 
The fangs of fiends are in my new-torn flesh : 
Nature compels me, and 1 must have succour. 
[Exit hastily, and lorithing with pain. 
Constan. Alas ! God pity him ! one luck- 
less moment 
Of weakness and of anguish bring to him 
A wound that cannot be up-bound. Poor 
nature ! {Enter many fugitives from 
the icalls.) 
Turn, turn, O soldiers ! let not this shame be. 
{To the fugitives.) 
{As he is endeavouring with his friends to ral- 
ly them and push forward, a terrible shout is 
heard, and enter a great crowd of fugitives 
from the walls.) 
What shout was that.' 

Fugitive. , The Turks have gain'd the 
breach , and thro' it pour 
Like an o'erboiling flood. 

Constan. Th«n is the city lost — the dark 
hour come — 
And as an emperor my task is clos'd. 
God's will be done I {Throwing away the 

imperial purple.) 
Now is there left for me these sinew'd arms, 
And this good sword, the wherewithal to 

earn 
A noble soldier's death. 
Come on with me who will, and share the 

fate 
Of a brave comrade. 

A Fugitive, {joined by several others.) Yes, 
we'll share thy fate, 
Comrade or sov'reign, noble Constantino ! 
We will die by thy side. 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



327 



[Exit Constantine, followed by his friends 
and several of the fiigitives, and passing 
through the pillars to the hack-ground, rush- 
es amidst the conf vision of the fight. A ter- 
rill-e noise of arms, &,-€. and pi csently one of 
the pillars in the middle of the stage falling 
doion, a icider meic of the battle is opened, 
and the Turks are seen rushing through the 
breach, and bearing every thing before them. 

Re-enter Constantine wounded, but still 
fighting bravely, though oppressed with num- 
bers, and falls down near the front of the stage, 
the enemy passing on and leave him. 
Constan. Am I then left ! 
Oh is the rene'er a Christian soldier near me 
That will cut off my head ? Ho ! thou Turk 
there I {To a Turk who is going to 
pu3s him.) 
Turk. Art thou not dead ? 
Constan. No, one half of me, Turk, is liv- 
ing still, {Raising himself half up 
from the ground.) 
And still a match for thee. 

Turk. Ha! say'st thou so? we'll put it to 
the proof. 
Yet thou'rt a brave man, tho' thou art a 

Greek, 
I would far rather let thee die in peace. 
Constan. No, no ! have at thee ! {pushing 
at the Turk with his sword, who turn- 
ing against him as he is half raised 
from the ground, thrusts him through 
the body.) 
I thank thee, friendly foe-man, this will do: 
Thou hast done me good service. 

Turk. And thou art welcome to it. Fare 
thee well ! 
A good death to thee ! for thou art no Greek. 

[Exit. 

Constan. Ay, this will do : this hath the 

true stern gripe 

Of potent speedy death. My task is closed. 

1 now put off these weeds of flesh and blood, 

And, thanks be unto Him who cloth'd 'me in 

them ! 
Untarnish'd with disgrace. What cometh 

after 
Full surely cometh well. 'Tis a dark pass. — 
{Catching at a dropt garment that has been 
left by some of the fugitives on the ground 
near him.) 
Here is a ready shrowd to wrap my head : 
This death deals shrewdly with me. {Covers 
his face and dies, after a considerable 
struggle .) 

Enter Rodrigo, Othus, and Marthon, with 
two or three of their followers, fighting brave- 
ly with a party of Turks, whom they beat off 
the stage. 

Othus. Now for a space those rufhans stand 
aloof: 

This is a pause that calls upon the mind : 

What shall we do.' 
Rod. What do men do, when they togeth- 
er stand, 

On the last perch of the swift-sinking wreck.' 



Do they not bravely give their parting cheer, 
And make their last voice loud and boldly 

sound 
Amidst the hollow roarings of the storm ? 
Evil so will we : we'll bear our manhood up 
To tlie last push. 

Othus. Thou speakest well, brave seaman : 
thou dost speak 
What the heart owns : we will do even so. 
But Oh, that our brave leader now were near 

us, 
Living or dead ! Doth no one know his fate ? 
I thought by him t' have died. 

First FoUmcer. What corpse is this so cov- 
er'd .' on its sandal 
It wears th' imperial bird in fretted gold. 
Othus. Then it is he ! ( Tearing off the 
covering eagerly from the head of 
Constantine.) 
O thou brave heart ! thou hast got to thy 

rest 
With honour: Heav'n be praised that thou 

hast! 
Here round thee our last gathering point shall 

be : 
Here will we fight, nor shall thy honour'd 

body 
Suffer, whilst one of us has strength to fight. 
The slightest insult. 

Rod. Ay, they shall hack us into raven's 
meat. 
Ere on his gallant corpse there be impress'd 
Oae touch of impious hands ! (a loud noise of 
shrieking a7id terror heard without.) 
Othus. Hear the wild cries of terror and 
despair, 
Mix'd with the din of carnage ! Now those 

cowards. 
Who let this brave man all unaided perish. 
Are suff'ring that which, in his fellest pinch, 
The valiant never suffers. 
But see, the enemy again returns 
With doubled fury ! 
Rod. Come they .' then we are ready for 
them. Yonder 
Stands a small walled dome, within whose 

portal 
We for a time may face ten thousand foes : 
There will we take our stand, and there will 

we 
Do our last deeds of men. Come on, brave 

mates ! 
Take up our honour'd treasure ; and, so bur- 

den'd. 
He that doth grapple with us had as lief 
Pull from the lion's hug his bosom'd whelp. 
The followers take up the body, and Othus and 
Rodrigo retire, defending it bravely from a 
party of Turks, icho enter and fall upon them 
as they are bearing it off.) 

Scene II. — an apartment in one of 

THE TOWERS OF THE PALACE. 

Enter Valeria in great alarm, followed by Lu- 
cia and Attendants. 



328 



CX)NSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Val. Louder and louder still the dreadful 
sound 
Of battle swells. Is it not nearer us ? 
This lofty tower tlie widest view commands ; 
Open that lattice quickly. {Pointing to a 
windoiii which Lucia opens, a7id then, 
rusldnir on cagerhj to look, shrinks 
hark airain.) 
I pray thee look thyself, mine eyes are dark, 
And I see nothing. Oh, what see'st thou ? 
Tell me whate'er it be. 

Lucia, (looking out.) Nothing but clouds 
of smoke and eddying dust : 
A dun and grumly darkness spreads o'er all, 
From which arise those horrid sounds, but 

naught 
Distinctive of the fight can I discern- 

Val. (lifter pacing backward and forward 

with an unequal, restless, agitated 

step.) Oh, will this state of tossing 

agony 

No termination have ! Send out, I pray 

thee, 
Another messenger. 

Lucia. Indeed I have in little space of time 
Sent many forth, but none return again. 
Val. In little space. Oh it hath been a 
term 
Of horrible length.' such as rack'd fiends do 

reckon 
Upon their tossing beds of surgy flames. 
Told by the lashes of each burning tide 
That o'er them breaks. — Hark ! the quick step 

of one 
With tidings fraught ! Dost thou not hear it .' 

Lucia. No ; 

I hear it not. 

Val. Still is the false coinage of my fears ? 
Ah I hearing, sight, and every sense is now 
False and deceitful grown. — I'll sit me down, 
And think no more but let the black hour pass 
In still and fixed stupor o'er my head. 
(Sits down upon a low seat, and supports her 
bended head upon both her hands.) 
Lucia, (listening ) Now I do hear the sound 
of real feet 
In haste approaching. 

Val. (starting up.) Some one brings us 
tidings. 
What may they be P Quicksteps should bring 
us good. 

Enter Messenger. 

Say all thou hast to say, and say it quickly. 

If it be good liold up tliy blessed iifind. 

And I will bless the token. — No, thou dost 

not! 
'Tis evil then. — How is it with my lord .' 
What dangers still encompass him.' 
Mes. No dangers. 

Val. And dost thou say so with that terri- 
l)le look .' 
Is he alive .' Have all deserted him ? 

Mes. No, round his body still some brave 
men figlit, 
And will not quit him till they be as he is. 



(Valeria, uttering a loud shriek, falls back int» 
the arms of her attendants, and is carried off, 
followed by Lucia and the Messenger.) 

Scene III. — a hall in the palace. 

Enter a Crowd of frightened Women, and seem 
hurrying on to some place of greater security. 

First JFoman. (stopping.) No, we are wrong ; 
we'll to the eastern tower, 

That is the most retir'd ; that last of all 

Will tempt their search. 

Second Woman. In the deep vaulted cav- 
erns of the palace. 

Might we not for a while conceal'd remain, 

Till heav'n shall send us means .' 

Omnes. Ay, thou art right ; that is the best 
of all : 

We'll to the vaults, (.^s they are all turning 
and hurrying bo.ck again, enter a do- 
mestic Officer of the palace, and stops 
them. 
Officer. Where do you run with such wild 
looks of fear .' 

Think ye the Turks are passing thro' the 
city, 

Like the short visit of a summer's storm. 

That you in lioles and rocks may safely hide 

Until it be o'erblown ? 
First Woman. Oh, no ! we know that they 
are come for ever ! 

Yet for a little while we fain would save us 

From fearful things. 

Officer. I come to tell you that by Ma- 
h'met's orders 

The cruel Turks have stopp'd their bloody 
work, 

And peace again is in our walls. 
First Woman. Say'st tiiou .' 

And art thou sure of this .' and hast thou seen 
it.' 
Officer. Yes, I have seen it. Like a sudden 
gleam 

Of fierce returning light at the storm's close, 

Glancing on horrid sights of waste and sor- 
row. 

Came the swift word of peace, and to the eye 

Gave consciousness of that which the wild 
uproar 

And dire confusion of the carnage hid. 

First Woman. Alas ! be there such sights 

within our walls ? 
Officer. Yes, maid, such sights of blood ! 
such sights of nature ! 

In expectation of their horrid fate. 

Widows, and childless parents, and 'lorn 
dames, 

Sat by their unwept dead with fixed gaze, 

In horrible stillness. 

But when the voice of grace was heard 
aloud, 

So strongly stirr'd within their roused souls 

The love of life, that, even amidst those hor- 
rors, 

A joy was seen — joy hateful and unlovely. 

I saw an aged man rise from an heap 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS i A TRAGEDY, 



329 



Of grizly dead, whereon, new murder'd, lay. 
His sons and grandsons, yea, the very babe 
Whose cradle he had rock'd with palsied 

hands. 
And shake his grey locks at the sound of life, 
With animation wild and horrible. 
1 saw a mother with her murder'd infant 
Still in her arms fast lock'd, spring from the 

ground — 
No, no ! I saw it not ! J saw it not ! 
It was a hideous fancy of my mind : 
I have not seen it. 
But I forget my chiefest errand here. 
First Woman. And what is that.^ 
Officer. It is to bid you tell youi royal mis- 
tress, 
It may, perhaps, somewhat assuage her grief, 
That Othus and Rodrigo, with some followers, 
Tlae last remains of the imperial band. 
Fighting, in all the strength of desperation. 
Around the body of their fallen chief. 
Have mov'd to gen'rous thoughts the sultan's 

breast ; 
Who has their valour honour'd with full leave. 
In blessed ground, with military pomp, 
Becoming his high state and valiant worth, 
To lay his dear remains. This with their 

lives 
On honourable terms he freely grants. 

First Woman. And do those brave men live .'' 
Officer. They do; but Othus soon I fear 

will be 
With him he mourns. — Delay no more, I 

pray : 
Inform the empress speedily of this. 

First IVoman. Alas ! she is not in a state to 

hear it : 
The phrenzy of her grief repels all comfort. — 
But softly! — hush I — methinks I hear her 

voice. 
She's coming hither in the restless wand'rings 
Of her untamed mind. — Stand we aside, 
And speak not to her yet. 

Enter Valeria with her hair dishevelled, and 
in all the wild disorder of violent sorrow, fol- 
lowed by Ella and Lucia, who seem endeav- 
ouring to soothe her. 

Val. Forbear all words, and follow me no 

more. 
I now am free to wander where I list ; 
To howl i' the desert with the midnight winds. 
And fearless be amidst all fearful things. 
The storm has been 'with me, and I am left 
Torn and uprooted, and laid in the dust 
With those whom after-blasts rend not again. 
I am in the dark gulf where no light is. 
I am on the deep bed of sunken floods, 
Whose swoln and welt'ring billows rise no 

more 
To bear the tossed wreck back to the strand. 
Lucia. Oh, say not so ! Heav'n doth in its 

good time 
Send consolation to the sharpest woe. 
It still in kindness sends to the tried soul 
Its keenest sulTrings. So say holy men ; 
And therein good men trust. 

41 



Val. I hear, I hear thee ! in mine oar thy 
voice 
Sounds like the feeble night-fly's humming 

noise 
To him, who in the warfare of vex'd sleep. 
Strives with the phantoms of his inward world. 
Yes, there be comfort when the sun is dark. 
And time hath run his course, and the still'd 

sleepers 
Lift up their heads at the tremendous crash 
Of breaking worlds. — I know all this. — But 

here. 
Upon this living earth, what is there found .' 
It is a place of groans and hopeless woe. 
Let me then tear my hair and wring my hands. 
And raise my voice of anguish and despair : 
This is my portion now, all else is gone. 
Lucia. Nay, think not virtuous innocence 
forsaken : 
Put in high Heav'n thy trust, it will sustain 
thee. 
Val. Ah ! I did think when virtue bravely 
stood, 
Fronting its valiant breast to the fierce onset 
Of worthless power, that it full surely stood : 
That ev'ry spiritual and righteous power 
Was on its side : and in this faith, ofttimes, 
iVIetliought I could into the furnace mouth 
Have thrust my hand, and grasp'd the molten 

flames. 
Yet on his head it fell : that noble head. 
Upon whose manly gracefulness was fix'd 
The gaze of ev'ry eye. 

Oil ! on his lib'ral front there beam'd a look, 
Unto the which all good and gen'rous hearts 
Answer return'd. — It was a gentle head, 
Bending in pleasant kindliness to all ; 
So that the timid, who approach'd him trem- 
bling. 
With cheer'd and vaunting steps retir'd again. 
It was a crowned head, yet was it left 
Expos'd and fenceless in the hour of danger : 
What should have been his safety was his 

bane. 
Away, poor mock'ry of a wretched state ! 
( Tearing the regal ornaments from her neck, and 

scatteriiig them about.) 
Be 3'e strew'd to the winds ! But for this let 
We had been blest ; for he as truly loved, 
In simplest tenderness, as the poor hind. 
Who takes his humble house-mate by the 

hand, 
And says, " thisisniy all." — Off", cursed band ! 
Which round our happiness hath been en- 

twin'd 
Like to a strangling cord : upon the earth 
Be thou defac'd and trampled ! (Tearing the 
tiara from her head and stamping 
upon it, then pacing up and doicn dis- 
traetcdhj.) 
Lucia. Alas ! my royal mistress, be intreat- 
ed! 
This furious grief will but enhance its pain : 
Oh, bear yourself as more becomes your state ) 
Val. Yes, I will bear me as becomes my 
state. 
I am a thing of wretchedness and ruin. 



330 



CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



That upon wliich my pride and being grew 
Lies in the dust, and be the dust my bed. 
{Throwiriff kerse.lf uj/mi thr, grouvd, and pnsh- 
iiii; atony Lueia and hrr other Jittcndaiits^ 
who endeavour to raise her up again.) 
Forbear I forbear ! and let me on tlie ground 
Spread out my wretched hands. It pleases 

me 
To think that in its breast there is a rest — 
Yea, there lie they, unheeded and forgotten, 
To wiioni .all tongues give praise, all hearts 

give blessing. 
Oh, ev'ry heart did bless hiui tho' lie fell. 
And ne'er a saving hand was found — Oh ! oh I 
{Burstims into an aiTony "f gri"/, and Inijing 
lir.r head upon the ground, covered vitli both 
her hands.) 

Ella, {to Lucia niul Attendants .) Do not sur- 
round liertlius! ril sit and watch her. 
I will not speak, but, sit and weep by her ; 
And she shall feel, ev'n thro' her heavy woe, 
That sympathy and kindness are beside her. 
Vat. {^raising her head.) There spoke a gen- 
tle voice : is Ella near me ? 
Ella. Yes, I am near, and shall be ever 

ii&ar you. 
Val. Wilt thou .^ I do believe, sweet maid, 
thon wilt. 
Lay thy soft lia.ul on mine. — Yes, it feels 

kindl}'. 
Had he, thy valiant love, been near his lord — 
Ay, they did Jove each other with that love 
Which brave men know — Oh, ev'ry noble 

stranger, 
In admiration of his noble worth. 
Did call him lord ; whilst thej', his native 

subjects. 
They who had seen him grow within their 

walls, — 
Alas ! where lightly tripp'd his infant steps ; 
Where in gay sports his stripling's strength 

was tried ; 
Where tower'd in graceful pride his manly 

bloom ; 
Even there a lifeless, ghastly form he lies. 
Enter another Domastic Officer, and seeing 
Valeria on the ground, steps back. 

Lucia, {to the O^cer.) What vvoi^ld'st thoii 

here .' 
Offixxr. I must, perforce, speak ijiy unwel- 
come tidings. 
The sultan is already in the palace, 
And follows hard my steps with a fix'd pur- 
pose 
To see the empress. 

Val. {raising herself half from the ground.) 
What fearful words are these ? in my soul's 

anguish 
Comes tliis so. quickly on me ? Be it so ! 
I cleave to t!f ' earth ! what have I now to do ? 
I am a stilled thing, abas'd and crush'd ; 
What boots it now who gazes on my woo ? 
Enter Mahomet with Os&iiR and his Train. 
Ma. (to Osmir, after looking at Valeria s/c«/7- 
Jasthj.) She stirs not^ Osnjir, ov'n at 
piy approach. 



She sits upon the ground, unmov'd and still 

Thou sorrow-clouded beauty, not less lovely 

( Going up to her.) 

For this thy mournful state ! — She heeds me 

not. 
Empress and sov'reign dame, unto those titles 
Which thou shalt ever wear, vouchsafe re- 
gard. 
Still she regards me not. (To Osmir.) 

Widow of Constantine ; {Aft^''' apause.) 

Val. {roxi sing herself quickly.) Ay, now thou 
callest on me by a name 
WhlcJi I do hear. There is strength in the 

sound 
To do all possible things ! (Rising (juichhj 
from the ground, and accosting Ma- 
homet icith an air of high assumed 
state.) 
What would'st thou say to her who proudly 

wears 
That honour'd title : 

Ma. Widow of Constantine ; I come not 
here 
In the stern spirit of a conqu'ror. 
The slaughter of your people, by my order, 
Isstopp'd ; and to your bravely fallen lord 
I have decreed such fun'ral obsequies 
As suits a valiant warrior and a king. 
Otims, and brave Rodrigo, and those men 
Who to the last their master's corpse defended, 
1 have with honour grac'd. — Lacks there 

aught still 
That, from the dark cloud which so deeply 

shades 
That awful beauty, one approving ray 
Might softly draw ? Speak, and it shall be 
. done. 
Val. Ask aught from thee ! 
Ma. Yes, whatsoe'er thou wilt : 
For now too well I feel I have no power 
That can oppose thy will. 

Val. I give you thanks: I have a thing to 

ask. 
Ma. Name it, and it is granted. 
Val. A place in the quiet tomb with my 
fall'n lord, 
Therein to rest my head. This ia my boon. 
Ma. Well, and it shall be granted, fair Vale- 
ria, 
When that fair form is fitted for such rest. 
But whilst — {Approaching her with an air of 
freer admiration.) 
Val. (putting Mm at a, distance haughtily.) 
No more : — I do not ask it sooner. 
Yet that it be a sealed deed between us, 
Permit me here to put into your hands 
A mark'd memorial. Some few paces off 
It is deposited ; I will return 
And give it to you instantly. [Exit, attend- 
ed by Lucia, P]lla, <^c. 
Ma. {to Osmir, looking after her as she goes 
out.) See, with what awful loveliness 
she moves ! 
Did all our bowcr'd prisons e'er contain 
Aught like to that ? 

Osmir. It dots, indeed, a wond'rous mix- 
ture- seem 



CONSTANTINE PALliOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY, 



331 



Of woman's loveliness with manly slate ; 
And yet, methinks, 1 feel as tho" it were 
Strange, and perplexing, and unsuitable. 
'Tis not in nature. 

Ma. Thiniv'st thou so, good vizir .-' 
Thou'rt right, helike, but it is wond'rous 
graceful. 
{A loud sliricit of women heard zcithovt.) 
What shrieks are these .-' Run thou and learn 
the cause. (Osmn goiiitr, in prcvcni 
ed by Valeria, who re-enters ivlth her 
robe wrapped across her breast, and 
Supported by Lucia, and Ella, and her 
bthcr Attendants , icho seem in great 
affliction round her.) 
Vol. {speaking as she enters.) Mourn not ; 
the thing is past that was to be. 
Conduct nie to the sultan : 1 have still 
Strength to fulfil my task. 

Ma. Great Prophet ! what is this ? What 

hast thou done.' (To Val'^ria.) 

Val. Brought thee the raark'd memorial of 

my right. {Shewing a dagger.) 

And that I now am fitted for that rest. 

The honour'd rest which you have granted 

me, 
Being the fi.xed condition of your promise. 
Here is the witness. (Opening her robe, 
and shewing the wound in her breast.) 
Ma. Oh sad and cruel sight ! Is there no 
aid .' 
Oh live, thou wond'rous (ireature, and be 

auglit 
Thy soul desires to be ! 

Val. (after sinking back into a seat, sup- 
ported by her Attendants.) I now am 
what my soul desires to be, 
And what one happy moment of wounded 

strength 
Beyond the pitch of shrinking nature makes 

me ; 
Widow of Gonstantine, without reproach, 
And worthy to partake the honour'd rest 
Of the brave lord whose living love I shar'd, 
As shares the noble wife a brave man's love. 
Ma. Prophet of God, be there such ties as 
these ? 
Enter RoDRiG'o, and Othus wounded and sup- 
porting himself feebly upon his sheathed 
sword. 

Val. And here come, in good time, my liv- 
ing friends : 
I shall once more those gen'rous men behold, 
The sad remains of those who lov'd their 
lord. (Holding out a hahd to each of 
them.) 
You know, brave brothers, how it is with me ; 
For sucli you were to him, ajid such to me 
My heart now truly owns you. 

Othus. Yes, we have heard : they told iis 
as we enter'd. 
Most noble woman, worthy of thy lord ! 
(Endeavouring feebly to kneel and kiss her 
hand, whilst Rodrioro does so on the other 
side of her.) 

Val. This day's rough tempest's o'er, my 
good Rodrigo, 



And thou still liv'st to strive in other storms ; 
Heaven's high l-k'ssing and my dying thanks 
B:est on thy gen'rous worth ! — 1 would say 

more, 
But now I feel 1 mav not. 
Where art thoi>-, Ella i" (Putting Ella's hand 

in his.) 

Here do I return 
TJie trust thou gavest me ; and if the sultan 
Will yet to me one last request vouchsafe, 
Me will Confirm tliis giiL 
Ma. It is confirm'd. 
P'al. 1 thank you, gracious victor. 
Pleaven bless you both ! (To EUa and Rod- 
rigo, v'ho 'Joth kneel and kiss her 

hands.) 
Othus, the dead go to their silent rest, (to . 

Otiius, looking fixedly at him.) 
And are no more remember'd : but tiiy lord — 
Ho whom thour lovedst — he whom all hearts 

lov'd — 
He who so noble and sog6ntle Was — 
W£?ll skilld art thou to jmint the deeds of 

men — 
Thou wilt not suffer him to be forgotten ? 
What means that wofu] motion of thy head ? 
Mine eyes wax dim, or do I truly see thee ? 
Thy visage has a strange and ghastly look : 
How is it with thee ? 

Othus. i\s one who standetli at the city's 

gate, 
Thro' which his earlier friends have passed, 

and waits 
Impatiently, girt in his traveller's robe. 
To hear the welcome creaking of its bars. 
Val. Ah ! art thou wounded then ? Alas ! 

alas! 
Art thou too of our company.' sad trav'llers' 
Unto a world unknown ? 

Othus. Nay, say not sad, tho' to a world 

unknown. 
The foster'd nursling, at th' appointed seaston, 
Who leaves his narrow crib and cottage-home 
For the fair mansion of his lordly sire, 
Goes to a world unknown. 

Val. Ay, thou would'st cheer me, and I' 

will be cheer'd. 
There reigns above who casts his dark rfiade 

o'er us, 
Mantling us on our way to glorious light. 
1 have ol'ended, and I should be fearful. 
But there is sent in mercy to my heart, 
For which I humbly give O no, I may 

not! 

Death is upon me now. Ella and Lucia : 

Stand closer tome: let me firmly grasp 
Something that I have lov'd. (Catching hold 

of them toitk a convulsive grasj).) 
It will soon cease : 
Farewell unto ye all ! (Dies.) 
(A soltmn pause, all Standing round and gaz- 
ing upon the body.) 
Othus. And this is the last form that we do 

wear, 
Unto the sad and solemn ga^ze of those 
Who have beheld us in our days of joy. 
Honour and deeoesl, rev'rcnce be to thee, 



532 



CONSTANTS K PALEOLOGUS : A TRAGEDY. 



Tliou honoiir'd dead ! (Boioing rcspectfuUij 

to the body.) 
Ma. Grt'iit God of hcav'n ! was this a wo- 

iiian's spirit 
That took its flight ? 

Rod. Let ev'ry proudest worship be upon 

lier, 
For she is number'd with tlie gallant dead. 
Not in the trophied field, nor.sculptur'd dome ; 
No, nor beneath the dark and billowy deep 
Lies one, o'er whom the valiant living would 
With truer zeal their lofty banners wave, 
Or bid the deep-mouth'd cannon nobly tell 
How brave men mourn the brave. 
How is it, Othus .'' something in thine eye 
Of'joyous sadness looks upon me wistfully. 
( To Othus, who laliKS him tenderly by the hand.) 
Othus. Dost thou not guess .■' — But I would 

speak to thee 
Of a brave soldier, wIjo, in one short moment 
Of nature's weakness, lias a wound receiv'd 
That will unto his life as fatal prove 
As fellest foeman's thrust : who in his rest 
Will not be mourn'd as brave men mourn the 

brave. 

Justiniani in his cave of shame 

Rod. And tlierein let him perish ! 
He hath disgrac'd a soldier's honest fame : 
He hath disgrac'd the country of his birth: 
He hath It makes mo stamp upon the 

ground 
To think that one, who grasp'd with brother's 

hand 
The noble Constantirte, should basely turn. 
Name not his cursed name I 

Othus. Art thou so stern .' In a lone cave 

he groans. 
On the damp earth, in deepest agony 
Of the soul's shrewdest sufterings. I have 
By an old soldier been advis'd of this, 
And I would go to him, but that I feel 
i needs must go where a more powerful call 
Doth summon me. 

Rod. (softened.) Ah! must thou then so 

soon, my gen'rous Othus ! 
Must thou so soon ? Well, ask whate'er thou 

wilt: 
I give my chafed passion to the winds. 
Ah ! goest thou .■' Do 1 the last remain 
Of those who lov'd the noble Constantino .'' 
The last of a brave band .' Alas ! alas ! 

{Embracing Othus tenderly.) 
Osmir. (to Mahomet, who strides up and 

down in gloomy agitation.) Most 

mighty Mahomet, what thus dis- 
turbs you ? 



May not your slave in humble zeal be told .' 
Ma. Away ! away ! tliy humble zeal I 

know ; 
Yea, and the humble zeal of such as thou art. 
The willing service of a brave man's heart. 
That precious pearl, upon the earth exists, 
But I have found it not. 

( Turning to Othus and Rodrigo.) 
Ye valiant men who have so serv'd your 

prince. 
There still is in the world a mighty monarch. 
Who, if he might retain you near his throne, 
Shall he say near his heart, in such dear zeal ? 
Would think his greatness honour'd. 

Othns. Great sultan, thou hast conquer'd 

with such arms 
As power has given to thee, th' imperial city 
Of royal Constantine ; but other arms. 
That might the friends of Constantine sub- 
due, 
Heav'n has denied thee. 

Rod. No, mighty prince ; they who have 

serv'd for love. 
Cannot like flying permants be transferr'd 
From bark to bark. 

Ma. (impatiently.) I understand you well, 

and you are free. 
Mine arms, such as they are, of heav'n are 

])k'ss'd, 
That is enough. 

Othus. That were indeed enough ; but 

heaven ofltimes 
Success bestows where blessing is denied. 
A secret spirit whispers to my heart. 
That in these walls your weaken'd wretched 

race, 
Slaves of their slaves, in gloomy prison'd 

pomp 
Shall shed each others blood, and make these 

towers 
A place of groans and anguish, not of bliss. 
And tliink not when the good and valiant 

perish 
By wordly power o'erwhelm'd, that heaven'» 

high favour 
Shines not on them. — Oh, no ! then shines it 

most. 
For tlien in them it shews th' approving 

world 
The worth of its best work. 
And from their fate a glorious lesson springs ; 
A lesson of such high ennobling power ; 
Connecting us with such exalted things 
As all do feel, but none with such true force, 
Such joy, such triumph, as a dying man. 

(Falling bach into the arms of Rodrigo.) 



TO THE READER. 



Aftkr an interval of nine years, I offer to 
the Public a third volume of the " Series of 
Plays;" hoping that it will be received, as 
the preceding- volumes have been, with some 
degree of favour and indulgence. This, I 
confess, is making very slow progress in my 
promised undertaking ;. and I could oifer some 
reasonable excuse for an apparent relaxation 
of industry, were I not afraid it might seem to 
infer a greater degree of expectation or de- 
sire, on the part of my readers, to receive the 
remainder of the work, than I am at all enti- 
tled to suppose. 

With the exception of a small piece, in two 
acts, at the end of the book, this volume is 
entirely occupied with different representa- 
tions of one passion; and a passion, too, 
which has been supposed to be less adapted 
to dramatic purposes than any other — Fear. 
It has been thought that, in Tragedy at least, 
the principal character could not possibly be 
actuated by this passion, without becoming so 
far degraded as to be incapable of engaging 
the sympathy and interest of the spectator or 
reader. I am, however, inclined to think, 
that even Fear, as it is under certain circum- 
stances, and to a certain degree a universal 
passion, (for our very admiration of Courage 
rests upon this idea,) is capable of being made 
in the tragic drama, as it often is in real life, 
very mteresting, and consequently not abject. 

The first of these plays, is a Tragedy of five 
acts, the principal character of which is a 
woman, under the dominion of Superstitious 
Fear ; and that particular species of it, (the 
fear of ghosts, or the returning dead,j which 
is so universal and inherent in our nature, 
that it can never be eradicated from the mind, 
let the progress of reason or philosophy be 
what it may. A brave and wise man of the 
19th century, were he lodged for the night in 
a lone apartment where murder has been com- 
mitted, would not so easily believe, as a brave 
and wise man of the i4tJa century, that the 
restless spirit from its grave might stalk round 
his bed and opcH his curtains in the stillness 
of midnight : but should circumstances arise 
to impress him with such a belief, he would 
feel the emotions of Fear as intensely, though 
firmly persuaded that such beings have no 
power to injure him. Nay, I am persuaded 
that, could we suppose any person with a 
mind so constituted as to hold intercourse 
with such beings entirely devoid of Fear, we 
should turn from him with repugnance as 
something unnatural— as an instance of mental 
monstrosity. If I am right then in believing 
tliis impression of the mind to be so universal, 
1 shall not be afraid of having so far infring- 
ed on the dignity of my heroine, as to make 



her an improper object to excite dramatic 
interest. Tliose, I believe, who possess 
strong imagination, quick fancy, and keen 
feeling, are most easily affected by this spe- 
cies of Fear : I have, "therefore, made Orra a 
lively, cheerful, buoyant character, when not 
immediately under its influence ; and even 
extracting from her superstitious propensity a 
kind of wild enjoyment, which tempts her trt 
nourish and cultivate the enemy that destroys 
her. The catastrophe is such as Fear, I 
understand, docs more commonly produce 
than any other passion. I have endeavoured 
to trace the inferior characters of the piece 
with some degree of variety, so as to stand 
relieved from the principal figure ; but as 1 
am not aware that any particular objection is 
likely to be made to any of them, they shall 
be left entirely to the mercy of my reader. 

But if it has been at all necessary to offer 
any apology for exhibiting Fear as the actu- 
ating pirnciple of the heroine of the first play, 
what must I say in defence of a much bolder 
step in the one that follows it ? in which 1 
have made Fear, and the fear of Death too, 
the actuating principle of a hero of Tragedy. 
I can only say, that I believed it might be 
done, without submitting him to any degra- 
dation that would affect the sympathy and 
interest I intended to excite. I must confess,, 
however, that, being unwilling to appropriate 
this passion in a serious form to my own sex 
entirely, when the subjects of all the other 
passions, hitherto delineated in this series, are 
men, I have attempted what did indeed ap- 
pear at first sight almost impracticable. This 
esprit dc corps must also plead my excuse for 
loadmg the passion in question with an ad- 
ditional play. The fear of Death is here ex- 
hibited in a brave character, placed under 
such new and appalling circumstances as 
might, I supposed, overcome the most cou- 
rageous ; and as soon as he finds himself in a 
situation like those in which he has been ac- 
customed to be bold, viz. with arms in hi& 
hand and an enemy to encounter, he is made 
immediately to resume all his wonted spirit. 
Even after he believes himself to be safe, he 
returns again to attack, in behalf of his com- 
panion, who beseeches him to fly, and who is 
not exposed to any personal danger, a force 
so greatly superior to his own as to leave him- 
self scarcely a chance for redemption. 

That great active courage in opposing din- 
ger, and great repugnance from passive en- 
durance and unknown change which are 
independent of our exertions, are perfectly 
consistent, is a point, I believe, very well 
ascertained. Soldiers, who have distinguish- 
ed themselves honourably in the field, have 



3ai 



TO THE READER. 



died pusillanimously on the scaffold ; while 
men broajxlit up in peaceful habits, who, 
witiiout some very strong excitement, woiald 
have marched witli trepidation to Latllo, have 
died under the hands ol'tlie executioner with 
magnanimous composure. And, I beheve, it 
has been found by experience, tliat women 
have always behaved with as much resolution 
and calmness in tliat tremendous situation as 
men; althougli I do not believe that women, 
in regard to uncertain danger, even making 
allowance for their inferior strength and un- 
favourable habits of lite, are so brave as men. 
1 have therefore supposed that, tliough active 
and passive courage are often united, they 
frequently exist separately, and independently 
of each other. Nor ought vve to be greatly 
surprised at this v/hen we consider, that a 
man, actively bravo, when so circumstanced 
that no exertion of strength or boldness is of 
any avail, finds himself in a new situation, 
contrary to ail former experience ; and is 
therefore taken at greater disadvantage than 
men of a different character. He, who has less 
of that spirit which naturally opposes an ene- 
my, and still hopes to overcome while the 
slightest probability remains of success, has of- 
ten before, in imagination at least, been in a 
similar predicament, and is consequently bet- 
ter prepared for it. But it is not want of 
fortitude to bear bodily sufferings, or even de- 
liberately inflicted deatli, under the circum- 
stances commonly attending it, that the char- 
acter of Osterloo exhibits. It is the horror 
he conceives on being suddenly awakened to 
the imagination of the awful retributions of 
another world, from having the firm behef of 
them forced at once upon his mind by extra- 
ordinary circumstances, which so miserably 
quells an otherwise undaunted spirit. I only 
contend for the consistency of brave men 
shrinking from passive sufferings and un- 
known change, to shew, that so far from 
transgressing, I have, in this character, kept 
much within the bounds which our experi- 
ence of human nature would have allowed me. 
If I am tediously anxious to vindicate myself 
on this subject, let my reader consider, that 1 
am urged to it from the experience I have 
had of the great reluctance with which peo- 
ple generally receive characters which are 
not drawn agreeably to the received rules of 
dramatic dignity, and common-place heroism. 
It may be objected tliat the fear of Death is 
in him so closely connected with Supersti- 
tious Fear, that the picture traced in this play 
bears too near a resemblance to that which is 
shewn in the foregoing. But the fears of 
Orra have nothing to Jo v/ith .apprehension 
of personal danger, and spring solely from a 
natural horror of supernatural intercourse : 
while those of Osterloo arise, as I have al- 
ready noticed, from a strong sense of guilt, 
suddenly roused within him by extraordinary 
circumstances ; and the prospect of being 
plunged, almost immediately by death, into 
an unknown state of punishment and horror. 



Not knowing by what natural means hist 
guilt cpuld be brought to light, in a manner 
so extraon'inary, a mind the least supersti- 
tious, in those days, perhaps I may even say in 
these, would have considered it to be super- 
natural ; and the dreadful consequences, so 
immediately linked to it, are surely sufP.cient-' 
]y strong to unhinge the firmest mind, having 
no time allowed to prepare itself for the tre- 
mendous change. , If there is any person, 
who, under such circumstances, could have 
remained unappalled, he docs not belong to 
that class of men, who, commanding thef 
fleets and armies of their grateful and admir- 
ing country, dare every thnig by flood and by 
field tiiat is dangerous and terrific for her 
sake ; but to one far different, whom hard 
drinking, opium, or impiety have sunk inta 
a state of unmanly and brutish stupidity. It 
will probably be supposed that I have carried 
the consequences of his passion too far in the 
catastrophe to be considered as natural ; but 
the only circumstance in the piece that is not 
entirely invention, is the catastrophe. The 
idea of it I received from a story told to me 
by my mother, many years ago, of a man 
condemned to lire block, who died in the 
same manner ; and since the play has been 
written, I have had the satisfaction of finding 
it confirmed by a circumstance very similar, 
related in Miss Plumtre's interesting account 
of the atrocities committed in Lions by the 
revolutionary tribunals.* 

The story of the piece is imaginary, though 
one of its principal circumstances, by a coinci-' 
dence somewhat whimsical, I found after it 
was written to agree with real history. Ir/ 
looking over Planta's History of Switzerland, 
I found that a violent pestilence, about the 
time when I have supposed it to happen, did 
actually carry off great multitudes of people 
in that counCry.t Had it been a real story, 
handed down by tradition, the circumstances 
of which were believed to be miraculous, I 
should have allowed it to remain so ; but not 
thinking myself entitled to assume so much, 
I have attempted to trace a natural connection 
from association of ideas, by which one thing 

* Plumtre's Residence in France, vol. i. p. 339. 

t A plague raged in Switzerland in 134y. It' 
was preceded by terrible earthquakes ; about a 
tliird part of the iilhabitantsWere destroyed. 

The monastery of St. Maurice, where the story 
of the play is supposed to have happened, is situ- 
ated in a narrow pass between lolly precipices, 
where the Rhone gushes from the Valais. The 
founder was Segismond, King of Burgundy. It 
was richly endowed ; the monks at one period 
leading very luxurious lives, hunting and keeping 
hounds, itc. It was dedicated to St. Maurice 
and his companions, the holy martyrs of the The- 
ban Legion. 

Many of the abbots and priors in Switzerland 
Were, in those days, feudal lords of the empire, 
and maintained troops of their own. Even some 
of the abbesses, presiding over convents of nuns, 
were possessed of the same power and privilege. 



TO THE READER. 



produces another, or is insinuated to have 
done so from beginning to end. The only 
circumstance that cannot be accounted for on 
this principle, is the falling of the lot to the 
guilty hand ; aiKl this nmst be conceded to me 
as a providential direction, or happy coinci- 
.dence. 

Contrary to our established laws of Trage- 
dy, tliis Play consi&'.3 only of three acts, and 
is written in prose. I have made it short, be- 
cause I was unwilling to mix any lighter 
matter with a subject so solemn ; and in ex- 
tending it to the usual length without doing 
.so, it would have been in danger of becoming 
monotonous and harassing. I have written 
it in prose, that the expressions of the agitat- 
ed person might be plain though strong, and 
kept as closely as possible to tiie simplicity of 
■nature. Such a subject would, I believe, 
have been weakened, not enriched, by poeti- 
cal embellislunent. Whether I am right or 
wrong in this opinion, I assure my reader it 
•has not been indolence that has tempted me 
■to depart from common rules. 

A Comedy on Fear, the chief character be- 
ing a man, is not liable to the objections I 
have supposed might be made to a Tragedy 
under the same circumstances. But a verv 
great degree of constitutional cowardice 
would have been a picture too humiliating to 
afford any amusement, or even to engage the 
attention for any considerable time. The 
hero of my third Play, tlierefore, is represent- 
ed as timid indeed, and endeavouring to con- 
ceal it by a boastful affectation of gallantry 
and courage ; but at the same time, worked 
upon by artful contrivances to believe him- 
eelf in such a situation as would have miser- 
ably overcome many a one, who, on ordinary 
occasions of danger, would have behaved with 
decorum. Cowardice in him has been culti- 
vated by indulgence of every kind : and self- 
conceit and selfishness are tlie leading traits 
of his character, which might have been 
orginally trained to useful and honourable 
activity. Fear, in a mixed character of this 
kind, is, I apprehend, a very good subject for 
Comedy, and in abler hands would certainly 
have proved itself to be so. 

The last Play in the volume is a drama of 
two acts, the subjectof which is Hope. This 
passion, when it acts permanently, loses the 
character of a passion, and when it acts vio- 
lently is like Anger, Joy, or Grief, too transi- 
ent to become the subject of a piece of any 
length. It seemed to me, in fact, neither fit 
for Tragedy nor Comedy ; and like Anger, 
Joy, or Grief, I once thought to have lell it 
out of my Series altogether. However, what 
it v/anted in strength it seemed to have in 
grace ; and being of a noble, kindly and en- 
gaging nature, it drev/ me to itself; and I 
resolved to do every thing for it that 1 could, 
in spite of the objections which had at first 
deterred me. The piece is very short, and 
can neither be called Tragedy nor Comedy. 
It may indeed appear, for a passion so much 



allied to all our cheerful and ejihilarating 
thoughts, to approach too nearly to the for- 
mer ; but Hope, vvlien its object is of great 
importance, nmst so often contend with des- 
pondenc}', that it rides like a vessel on the 
stormy ocean, rising on the billow's ridge but 
for a moment. Cheerfulness, the character 
of common Hope, is, in strong Hope, like 
glimpses of sun-shine in a cloudy sky. 

As this passion, thougli more pleasing, is 
not so pov/erfully interesting as those that are 
more turbulent, and was therefore in danger 
of becoming languid and tiresome, if long 
dwelt upon without interruption ; and at tho 
same time of being sunk into shade or entire- 
ly overpowered, if relieved from it by variety 
of strong marked characters in the inferior 
persons of the drama. I have introduced into 
tiie scenes several songs. So many indeed, 
that 1 have ventured to call it a Musical 
Drama. 1 have, however, avoided one fault 
so common, 1 m.ight say universal, in such 
pieces, viz. making people sing in situations 
in which it is not natural for them to do so : 
and creating a necessity for either having the 
first characters performed by these, who can 
both act and sing, (persons very difficult to 
find,) or permitting ti;em to be made entirely 
insipid and absurd. For this purpose, the 
songs are all sung by those who have little or 
nothing to act, and introduced when nothing 
very interesting is going on. They are also 
supposed not to be spontaneous expressions 
of sentiment in the singer, but (as songs in 
ordinary life usually are) compositions of 
other people, which have been often sung be- 
fore, and are only generally applicable to the 
present occasion. 

The story is imaginary, but I have endea- 
voured to make it, as far as my information 
enabled me, to correspond with the circum- 
stances of the time and place in which it is 
supposed to have happened. 

Having said all that appears to me necessa^ 
ry in regard to tlis contents of the volume, I 
should now leave my reader to peruse it with- 
out further hindrance; but as this will pro- 
bably be the last volume of Plays I shall ever 
publish, I must beg to detain him a few mo- 
ments longer. For I am inclined to think, 
he may have some curiosity to know what is 
the extent of my plan in a task I have so far 
fulfilled; and I shall satisfy it most cheerful- 
ly. It is my intention, if I live long enough, 
to add to this work the passions of Remorse, 
Jealousy, and Revenge. Joy, Grief, and An- 
ger, as I have already said, are generally of 
too transient a nature, and are too frequentlj'' 
the attendants of all our other passions to be 
made ihe subjects of an entire play. And 
though this objection cannot he urged in re- 
gard to Pride and Envy, two powerful pas- 
sions Vi'hich I have not yet named ; Pride 
would make, I should think, a dull subject, 
unless it were merely taken as the ground-, 
work of more turbulent passions ; and Envy, 
being that state of mind, which, of all others^ 



336 



TO THE READER. 



meets witli least sympathy, could only be en- 
dured in Comedy or I'aree, and would become 
altogether disgusting in Tragedy. I have be- 
sides, in some degree, introduced this latter 
passion into the work already, by making it a 
companion, or rather a component part of" 
Hatred. Of all our passions, Remorse and 
Jealousy appear to me to be tho best fitted 
for representation. If this be tiie case, it is 
fortunate for me that 1 have reserved them 
for tlie end of my task ; and that they have 
not been already published, read, and very 
naturally laid aside as unlit for the stage, be- 
cause they have not been produced upon it. 

My reader may likewise wish to know why, 
having so many years ago promised to go on 
publishing this work, I sliould now intend to 
leave it off, though I still mean to continue 
writing till it shall be completed ; and this 
supposed wish, 1 think myself bound to gra- 
tify. — The Series of Plays was originally pub- 
lished in the hope that some of the pieces it 
contains, although first given to the Public 
from tfie press, might in time make their way 
to the stage, and there be received and sup- 
ported with some degree of public favour. 
But the present situation of dramatic afiairs 
is greatly against every hope of this kind; 
and should they ever become more favourable, 
I have now good reason to believe, that the 
circumstance of these plays having been 
already published, would operate strongly 
against their being received upon the stage. 
1 am therefore strongly of opinion that I ought 
io reserve the remainder of the work in man- 
uscript, if I would not run the risk of entirely 
frustrating my original design. Did I believe 
that their iiaving been already published 
would not afterwards obstruct their way to 
the stage, tiie untowardness of present cir- 
cumstances should not prevent me from con- 
tinuing to publish. 

Having thus given an account of my views 
and intentions regarding this work, I hope 
that, should no more of it be published in my 
lifetime, it will not be supposed I have aban- 
doned or become weary of my occupation ; 
which is in truth as interesting and pleasing 
to me now as it was at the beginning. 

But when I say, present circumstances are 
unfavourable for the reception of these Plays 
upon the stage, let it not be supposed that I 
mean to throw any reflection upon the prevail- 
ing taste for dramatic amusements. The pub- 
lic have now to choose between what we shall 
suppose are well-written and well-acted Plays, 
the words of which are not heard, or heard but 
imperfectly by two thirds of the audience, 
while the finer and more pleasing traits of the 
acting are by a still greater proportion lost al- 
together, and splendid pantomime, or pieces 
whose chief object is to produce striking scenic 
effect, which can be seen and comprehended 
by the whole. So situated, it would argue, 
methinks, a very pedantic love indeed, for 
what is called legitimate Drama, were we to 
prefer the fornjer. A love for active, varied 



movement in the objects before us ; for strik- 
ing contrasts of light and shadow ; for splendid 
decorations and magnificent scenery, is as in- 
herent in us as the interest we take in the 
representation of the natural passions and 
characters of men : and the most cultivated 
minds may relish such exhibitions, if they do 
not, when both are fairly offered to their 
choice, prefer them. Did our ears and our 
eyes permit us to hear and see distinctly in 
a Theatre so large as to admit of chariots and 
horsemen, and all the " pomp and circum- 
stance of war," I see no reason why we should 
reject them. They would give variety, and 
an appearance of truth to the scenes of heroic 
Tragedy, that would very much heighten its 
effect. We ought not, then, to find fault with 
the taste of the Public for preferring an in- 
ferior species of entertainment, good of its 
kind, to a superior one, faintly and imperfectly 
given. 

It has been urged, as a proof of this sup- 
posed bad taste in the Public, by one whose 
judgment on these subjects is and ought to 
be high authority, that a play, possessing con- 
siderable merit, was produced some years ago 
on Drury-Lane stage, and notwithstanding 
the great support it received from excellent 
acting and magnificent decoration, entirely 
failed. It is very true that, in spite of all this, 
it failed, during the eight nights it continued 
to be acted, to produce houses sufiiciently 
good to induce the Managers to revive it af- 
terwards. But it ought to be acknowledged, 
that that piece had defects in it as an acting 
Play, which served to counterbalance those 
advantages ; and likewise that, if an}' sup- 
posed merit in tlie writing ought to have re- 
deemed those defects, in a theatre, so large 
and so ill calculated to convey sound as the 
one in which it was performed, it was impos- 
sible this could be felt or comprehended by 
even a third part of the audience. 

The size of our theatres, then, is what I 
chiefly allude to, when I say, present circum- 
stances are unfavourable for the production of 
these Plays. While they continue to be of 
this size, it is a vain thing to complain either 
of want of taste in the Public, or want of in- 
clination in Managers to bring forward new 
pieces of merit, taking it for granted that 
there are such to produce. Nothing can be 
truly relished by the most cultivated audience 
that is not distinctly heard and seen, and 
Managers mustprodupe what will be relished. 
Shakspeare's Plays, and some of our other 
old Plays, indeed, attract full houses, though 
they are often repeated, because, being famil- 
iar to the audience, they can still understand 
and follow them pretty closely, though but 
imperfectly heard ; and surely this is no bad 
sign of our public taste. And besides this 
advanta<re, when a piece is familiar to the au- 
dience the expression of the actors' faces is 
much better understood, though seen imper- 
fectly ; for the stronger marked traits of feel- 
ing which even in a large theatre may reach 



TO THE READER. 



337 



the eyes of a great part of the audience, from 
the recollection of finer and more delicate in- 
dications, formerly seen so delightfully min- 
gled with them in the same countenances 
during the same passages of the Play, will, 
by association, still convey them to the mind's 
eye, though it is the mind's eye only which 
they have reached. 

And this thought leads me to another de- 
fect in large theatres, that ought to be consid- 
ered. 

Our great tragic actress, Mrs. Siddons, 
whose matchless powers of expression have 
so long been the pride of our stage, and the 
most admired actors of the present time, have 
been brought up in their youth in small thea- 
tres, where they were encouraged to enter 
thoroughly into the characters they represent- 
ed ; and to express in their faces that variety 
of fine fleeting emotion which nature, in mo- 
ments of agitation, assumes, and the imitation 
of which we are taught by nature to delight 
in. But succeeding actors will only consider 
expression of countenance as addressed to an 
audience removed from them to a greater dis- 
tance ; and will only attempt such strong ex- 
pression as can be perceived and have effect 
at a distance. It may easily be imagined 
what exaggerated expression will then get 
into use ; and I should think, even this strong 
expression will not only be exaggerated but 
false. For, as we are enabled to assume the 
outward signs of passion, not by mimicking 
what we have beheld in others, but by inter- 
nally assuming, in some degree, the passion 
itself; a mere outline of it cannot, 1 appre- 
hend, be given as an outline of figure fre- 
quently is, where all that is delineated is true 
though the whole is not filled up. Nay, be- 
sides having it exaggerated and false, it will 
perpetually be thrust in where it ought not to 
be. For real occasions of strong expression 
not occurring often enough, and weaker being 
of no avail, to avoid an apparent barrenness 
of countenance, they will be tempted to in- 
troduce it where it is not wanted, and thereby 
destroy its effect where it is. — I say nothinsf 
of expression of voice, to which the above ob- 
servations obviously apply. This will become 
equally, if not in a greater degree, false and 
exaggerated, in actors trained from their youth 
in a large theatre. 

But the department of acting that will suf- 
fer most under these circumstances, is that 
which particularly regards the gradually un- 
folding of the passions, and has, perhaps, hith- 
erto been less understood than any other part 
of the art — I mean Soliloquy . What actor in 
his senses will then think of giving to the sol- 
itary musing of a perturbed mind that mut- 
tered, imperfect articulation which grows by 
degrees into words ; that heavy, suppressed 
voice as of one speaking through sleep ; that 
rapid burst of sounds which often succeeds 
the slow languid tones of distress ; those sud- 
den, untuned exclamations which, as if fright- 
ened at their own discord, are struck again 



into silence as sudden and abrupt, with all 
the corresponding variety of countenance that 
belonors to it ; — what actor, so situated, will 
attempt to exhibit all this ? No ; he will be 
satisfied, after taking a turn or two across the 
front of the stage, to place himself directly in 
the middle of it ; and there, spreading out his 
hands as if he were addressing some person 
whom it behoved him to treat with great cere- 
mony, to tell to himself, in an audible uniform 
voice, all the secret thoughts of his own heart. 
When he has done this, he will think, and he 
will think rightly, that Jie has done enough. 

The only valuable part of acting that will 
then remain to us, will be expression of ges- 
ture, grace and dignity, supposing that these 
also shall not become affected by being too 
much attended to and studied. 

It may be urged against such apprehen- 
sions that, though the theatres of the metrop- 
olis should be large, they will be supplied 
with actors, who have been trained to the 
stage in small country-theatres. An actor of 
ambition (and all actors of genius are such) 
will practise with little heart in the country 
what he knows will be of no use to him on a 
London stage ; not to mention that the style 
of acting in London will naturally be the fash- 
ionable and prevailing style elsewhere. Act- 
ing will become a less respectable profession 
than it has continued to be from the days of 
Garrick ; and the few actors, who add to the 
natural advantages requisite to it, the accom- 
plishments of a scholar and a gentleman, will 
soon be wed away by the hand of time, leav- 
intr nothing of the same species behind them 
to spring from a neglected and sapless root. 

All I have said on this subject, may still in 
a greater degree be applied to actresses ; for 
the features and voice of a woman, being na- 
turally more delicate than those of a man, she 
must suffer in proportion from the defects of 
a large theatre. 

The great disadvantage of such over-sized 
buildings to natural and genuine acting, is, I 
believe, very obvious ; but they have other 
defects which are not so readily noticed, be- 
cause they, in some degree, run counter to the 
common opinion of their great superiority in 
every thing that regards general effect. The 
diminutive appearance of individual figures, 
and the straggling poverty of grouping, which 
unavoidably takes place when a very wide and 
lofty stage is not filled by a great number of 
people, is very injurious to general effect. 
This is particularly felt in Comedy, and all 
plays on domestic subjects; and in those 
scenes also of the grand drama, where two or 
three persons only are produced at a time. 
To give figures who move upon it proper ef- 
fect, there must be depth as well as width of 
stage ; and the one must bear some propor- 
tion to the other, if we would not make every 
closer or more confined scene appear like a 
section of a long passage, in which the actors 
move before us, apparently in one line, like 
the figures of a magic lanthorn. 



33a 



TO THE READER. 



It appears to me, that when a stage is of such 
a size that as many persons as generally come 
into action at one time in our grandest and 
best-peopled plays, can be produced on the 
front of it in groups, without crowding to- 
gether more than tiiey would naturally do 
any where else for the convenience of speak- 
ing to one another, all is gained in point of 
general effect that can well be gained. When 
modern gentlemen and ladies talk to one 
another in a spacious saloon, or when ancient 
warriors and dames conversed together in an 
old baronial hall, they do not, and did not 
stand further apail than when conversing in 
a room of common dimensions ; neither ouo-lit 
they to do so on the stage. All width of stage, 
beyond wiiat is convenient for such natural 
grouping, is lost ; and worse than lost, for it 
is injurious. It is continually presenting us 
with something similar to that which always 
offends us in a picture, where the canvas is 
too large for the subject; or in a face, where 
the features are too small for the bald margin 
of cheeks and forehead that surrounds them. 

Even in the scenes of professed show and 
spectacle, where nothing else is considered, it 
appears to me that a very large stage is in 
some degree injurious to general effect. Even 
when a battle is represented in our theatres, 
the great width of the stage is a disadvantage ; 
for as it never can nor ought to be represent- 
ed but partially, and the part which is seen 
should be crowded and confused, opening a 
large front betrays your want of numbers ; or 
should you be rich enough in this respect to 
fill it sufficiently, imposes upon you a difficul- 
ty seldom surmounted, viz. putting the whole 
mass sufficiently in .action to sustain the de- 
ception.* When a moderate number of com- 
batants, so as to make one connected group, 
are fighting on the front of a moderately wide 
stage, which they sufficiently occupy, it is an 
easy thing, through the confusion of their 
brandished weapons and waving banners, to 
give the appearance of a deep active battle 
beyond them, seen, as it were, through a nar- 
row pass; and beholding all the tumult of 

* The obiections above do not apply to scenes 
where sieges are represented ; for then the more 
diminished the actors appear, the greater is the 
importance and magnitude given to the walls or 
castle which they attack, while the towers and 
buttresses, &.c, sufficiently occupy tlie width and 
height of the stage, and conceal the want of 
numbers and general activity in the combatants . 
And the managers of our present large theatre 
have, in my opinion, shewn great judgment in in- 
troducing into their mixed pieces of late so many 
good scenes of this kind, that have, to my fancy 
at least, afforded a grand and animating show. 
Nor do they fairly apply to those combats or bat- 
tles into wliich horses are introduced ; for a mod- 
erate number of those noble animals may be made 
to occupy and animate, in one connected group, 
the front of the widest stage that we are in dan- 
ger of having, and to conceal the want of a nu- 
merous host and tumultuous battle behind them. 



battle in the small view opened before us, 
our imagination supplies what is hid. If we 
open a wider view, we give the imagination 
less to do, and supply what it would have done 
less perfectly. In narrowing our battle, like- 
wise, we could more easily throw smoke or an 
appearance of dust over the back ground, and 
procure for our fancy an unlimited s])ace. 

In processions also, the most pleasing effect 
to our iniaginations is, when the marshalled 
figures <are seen in long perspective which 
requires only depth of stage ; and the only ad- 
vantage a wide stage has on such occasions 
is containing the .assembled mass of figures, 
when the moving line stops and gathers itself 
together on the front. The rich confusion of 
sucli a crowd is indeed very brilliant and 
pleasing for a short time, but it is dearly pur- 
chased at the price of many sacrifices. 

On those occasions too, when many people 
are assembled on the front of the stage to 
give splendor and importance to some partic- 
ular scene, or to the conclusion of a piece, the 
general effect is often injured by great width 
of stage. For the crowd is supposed to be; 
attracted to the spot by something which 
engages their attention ; and, as they must 
not surround this object of attention, (which 
would be their natural arrangement,) lest 
they should conceal it from the audience, 
they are obliged to spread themselves out in 
along straight line on each side of it: now 
the shorter those lines or wings are, spread- 
ing out from the centre figures, the les-s do 
they offend against natural arrangement, and 
the less artificial and formal does the whole 
scene appear. 

In short, I scarcely know of any advantage 
which a large stage possesses over one of a 
moderate size without great abatements, even 
in regard to general effect, unless it be when 
it is empty, and scenery alone engages our 
attention, or when figures appear at a distance 
on the back ground only. Something in con- 
firmation of what I have been saying, h.as, 
perhaps, been felt by most'people on entering 
a grand cathedral, where, figures moving in 
the long aisles at a distance, add grandeur to 
the building by their diminished appearance; 
but in approaching near enough to become 
themselves distinct objects of attention, look 
stunted and mean, without serving to enlarge 
by comparison its general dimensions. 

There is also, I apprehend, greater difficul- 
ty, in a very wide and lofty stage, to produce 
variety of light and shadow ; and this often 
occasions the more solemn scenes of Tragedy 
to be represented in a full, staring, uniform 
light that ought to be dimly seen in twiliglit 
uncertainty ; or to have the objects on them 
shewn by partial gleams only, wliile the 
deepened shade around gives a sombre in- 
distinctness to the other parts of the stage, 
particularly favourable to solemn or terrific 
impressions. And it would be more difficult, 
I imagine to throw down light upon the ob- 
jects on such a stage, which I have never in- 



TO THM READER. 



D39 



deed seen attempted in any theatre, though it 
might surely be done in one of moderate di- 
mensions witli admirable effect. In short, a 
great variety of pleasing effects from light 
and shadow might be more easily produced on 
a smaller stage, that would give change and 
even interest to pieces otherwise monotonous 
and heavy; and would often be very useful 
in relieving the exhausted strength of the 
chief actors, while want of skill in the infe- 
rior could be craftily concealed.* On this 

* Note. — That strong light cast up from 
lamps on the front of the stage which has long 
been in use in all our theatres, is certainly very 
unfavourable to the appearance and expression 
of individual actors, and also to the general ef- 
fect of their grouped figures. When a painter 
wishes to give intelligence and expression to a 
face, he does not make his lights hit upon tlie 
under part of his chin, the nostrils, and the under 
curve of the eye-brows, turning of course all the 
shadows upwards. He does the very reverse of all 
this ; that the eye may look hollow and dark un- 
der the shade of its brow ; that the shadow of 
the nose may shorten the upper lip, and give a 
greater character of sense to the mouth ; and 
that any fulness of the under chin may be the 
better concealed. From this disposition of the 
light in our theatres, whenever an actor, whose 
features are not particularly sharp and pointed, 
comes near the front of the stage, and turns his 
face fully to the audience, every feature imme- 
diately becomes shortened and snub, and less 
capable of any expression, unless it be of the lu- 
dicrous kind. I'his at least will be the effect 
produced to those who are seated under or on 
the same level with the stage, making now a 
considerable proportion of an audience ; while 
to those who sit above it, the lights and shadows, 
at variance with the natural bent of the fea- 
tures, will make the whole face appear confused, 
and (compared to what it would have been with 
light thrown upon it from another direction) un- 
intelligible. As to the general effect of group- 
ed figures ; close groups or crowds, ranged on 
the front of the stage, when the light is thrown 
up upon them, have a harsh flaring appearance ; 
for the foremost figures catch the light, and are 
too much distinguished from those behind, from 
whom it is intercepted. But when the light is 
thrown down upon the objects, this cannot be 
the case : for then it will glance along the heads 
of the whole crowd, even to the very bottom of 
the stage, presenting a varied harmonious mass 
of figures to the eye, deep, mellow and brilliant. 

It may, perhaps, be objected to these last ob- 
servations, that the most popular of our night 
scenes in nature, and those which have been 
most frequently imitated by the painter, are 
groups of figures with strong light thrown up up- 
on them, such as gypsies or banditti round a fire, 
or villagers in a smith's forge, itc. But the strik- 
ing and pleasing effect of such scenes is owing 
to the deep darkness which surrounds them ; 
while the ascending smoke, tinged with flame- 
colour in the one case, and the rafters or higher 
partsof the wall catching a partial gleam in the 
other, connect the brilliant colouring of the fig- 
ures with the deep darkness behind them, which 
would else appear hard and abrupt, and thus at 
the same time produce strong contrast with har- 



part of the subject, however, 1 speak with great 
diflidence, not knowing to what perfection 
machinery for the management of light may 
be brought in a large theatre. But at the 
same time, I am certain that, by a judicious 
use of light and scenery, an artificial magni- 
tude may be given to a stage of a moderate 
size, that would, to the eye, as far as distance 
in perspective is concerned, have an effect 
almost equal to any thing that can be pro- 
duced on a larger stage : for that apparent 
magnitude arising from succession of objects, 
depends upon the depth of the stage, much 
more than its width and loftiness, whicli 
are oflen detrimental to it ; and a small or mo- 
derate sized theatre may have, without inju- 
ry to proportion, a very deep stage. 

It would be, I believe, impertinent to pur- 



monious gradation. I need scarcely mention, 
for it is almost too obvious, that the effect of the 
light so thrown on the faces of those figures 
abundantly confirm my first observations, regard- 
ing the features and expression of individuals 
faces; Yet I do not mean to say that light 
thrown up from the front of a stage, where light 
is also admitted from many other quarters, can 
have so strong an effect upon the countenances 
as in such situations. 

Groups of gypsies, &c. are commonly composed 
but of one circle of figures ; for did they amount 
to any thing like a deepened group or crowd, 
the figures behind would be almost entirely lost. 
But those grand night-scenes containing many 
figures which we admire in nature or in 
painting, — processions by torch-light or in an 
illuminated street, — crowds gathered to behold a 
conflagration, &c. always have the light thrown 
down upon them. — It may be urged indeed, that 
the greater part of our stage-scenes are meant to 
represent day and not night, so that the observa- 
tions above are but partially applicable. It is 
very true that stage-scenes generally are suppos- 
tobe seen by day-light ; but day-light comes from 
heaven, not from the earth j even withiu-doors 
our whitened ceilings are made to throw down 
reflected light upon us, while our pavements and 
carpets are of a darker colour. 

In what way this great defect of all our thea- 
tres could be rectified, I am not at all competent 
to say. Yet, 1 should suppose, that by bringing 
forward the roof of the stage as far as its boards 
or floor, and placing a row of lamps with reflect- 
ors along the inside of the wooden front-piece, 
such a light as is wanted might be procured. 
The green curtain in tliis case behoved not to be 
let down, as it now is, from the front-piece, but 
some feet within it ; and great care taken 
that nothing should be placed near the lamps 
capable of catching fire. If this were done, 
no boxes, I suppose, could be made upon the 
stage ; but the removal of stage -boxes would in 
itself he a great advantage. The front-piece at 
the top; the boundary of the stage from the or- 
chestra at the bottom ; and the pilasters on each 
side, would then represent the frame of a great 
moving picture, entirely separated and distinct, 
from the rest of the theatre : whereas, at pres- 
ent, an unnatural mixture of audience and actors, 
of house and stage takes place near the front of 
the stage, which destroys the general effect in 
a very great degree. 



340 



TO THE READER. 



sue this subject any forther ; and I beg par- 
don for liaving obtruded it so far where it may 
not appear naturally to be called for. I plead 
in my excuse an almost irresistible desire to 
express my thouglits, in some degree, up- 
on what has occupied them considerably ; and 
a strong persuasion that 1 ought not, how un- 
important soever they may be, entirely to con- 
ceal them. 

I must now beg leave to return my tl.anks 



to the Public for that indulgent favour which 
or so many years has honoured and clieered 
my labour ; and whether more or less liberal- 
ly dealt tome, has at all times been sufficient 
to prevent me from laying down my pen in 
despair. Favour, which has gratified me 
the more sensibly, because I have shared it 
with contemporary writers of the highest po- 
etic genius, whose claims to such distinction 
are so powerful. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
MEN. 

HuGHOBERT, Count of Aldcnberg. 

Glottenbal, his Son. 

Theobald of Falkenstein, a KuUeman of 
reduced Fortune, and Co-burgher of 
Basle. 

RcDiGERE, a Knight, and Commander of one 
of the Free Companies returned from 
the Wars, and Bustard of a Branch 
of the Family of Aldenberg. 

HARTMANj/riend of Theobald, anid Banneret 
of Basle. 

Urston, a Confessor. 

Franko, Chief of a Band of Outlaws. 

Maurice, aw Agent of Rudigere's. 

Soldiers, Vassals, Outlaws, &c. 

WOMEN. 

Orra, Heiress of another Branch of the Fami- 
ly of Aldenberg, and Ward to Hugho- 
bert. 

Eleanora, Wife to Hughobert. 

Cathrina, ) Ladies attending cm Orra. 

Scene — Switzerland, in the Canton of Basle, 
and afterwards in the Borders of the Black 
Forest in Subaia. 

Time — toward the end of the I4th Century. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — an open space before the 

WALLS OF A CASTLE, WITH WILD 
MOUNTAINS BEYOND IT. 

Enter Glottenbal, armed as from the Lists, 
but bare-headed and in disorder, and his arms 
soiled with earth or sand, which an Attendant 
is now and then brushing off, whilst another 
follows bearing his helmet; with him enters 
Maurice, followed by Rudigere, who is 
also armed, and keeps by himself, pacing to 
and fro at the bottom of the stage, whilst the 
others come forward. 

Glot. (speaking as he enters, loxid and hoast- 
ingly.) Aye, let him triumph in his 
paltry honours. 
Won by mere trick and accident. Good 

faith ! 
It were a shame to call it strength or skill. 
Were it not, Rudigere .' {Calling to Rudigere, 
who anstcers not.) 
Maur. His brow is dark, his tongue is 
lock'd, my Lord ; 



Tiiere come no words from him ; he bears it 

not 
So manfully as thou dost, noble Glottenbal. 
Glot. Fy on't ! I mind it not. 
Maur. And wherefore should'st thou .'' 
This same Theobald, 
Count and co-burgher — mixture most un- 
seemly 
Of base and noble, — know we not right well 
What powers assist him .' Mark'd you not, 

my Lord, 
How he did turn him to the witchy north, 
When first he mounted ; making his fierce 

steed, 
That paw'd and rear'd and shook its har- 

ness'd neck 
In generous pride, bend meekly to the earth 
Its mained crest, like one who made obei- 
sance ? 
Glot. Ha ! did'st thou really see it ? 
Maur. Yes, brave Glottenbal, 
I did right truty ; and besides myself, 
Many observ'd it. 

Glot. Then 'tis manifest 
How all this foil hath been. Who e'er be- 
fore 
Saw one with such advantage of the field, 
Lose it so shamefully .■' By my good fay ! 
Barring foul play and other dev'lish turns, 
I'd keep my courser's back with any Lord, 
Or Knight, or Squire that e'er bestrode a 

steed. 
Think'st thou not, honest Maurice, that I 
could ? 
Maur. Who doubts it, good my Lord ? 
This Falkenstein 
Is but a clown to you. 

Glot. Well let him boast. 
Boasting I scorn ; but I will shortly shew 

him 
What these good arms, with no foul play 

against them. 
Can honestly achieve. 

Maur. Yes, good my Lord ; but choose you 
well your day : 
A moonless Friday luck did never brincr 
To honest combatant. 

Glot. Ha ! blessing on thee ! I ne'er thought 
of this : 
Now it is clear how our mischance befell. 
Be sure thou tell to every one thou ineetst, 
Friday and a dark moon suit Theobald. 
Ho ! Rudigere ! hear'st thou not this ? 

Rud. (as he goes off, aside to Maurice.) 
Flatter the fool a while and let me go, 
I cannot join thee now. [Exit. 

Glot. (looking after Rudigere ) 
Is he so crest-fallen .'' 

Maur. He lacks your noble spirit. 
Glot. Fy upon't ! 



342 



ORKA : A TRAGEDY. 



I heed it not. Yet. by my sword and spurs ! 
'Tvvas a foul turn, that for iny rival earn'd 
A branch of victory from Orra's hand. 

Jilaur. Aye, foul indeed ! My blood boil'd 
high to sec it. 
Look where he proudly comes. 

Enter Theobald ariiTd, with Attendants, hav- 
ing a green spi ig stucic in his helmet. 

Glot. (going up to Theobald.) Comcst thou 
to face ine so .'' Audacious Burg-her ! 

The Lady Orra's favour suits theo not, 

Tho' for a time thou hast upon me gain'd 

A seeming 'vantage. 

Theo. A seeming 'vantage ! — Then it is 
not ti'uc. 

That thou, unhors'd, Iayd"st rolling in the 
dust. 

Asking for quarters ? — Let me crave thy par- 
don ! 

Some strange delusion hung upon our sioht 

That we believed it so. 
Glot. Off with thy taunts I 

And pull that sprig from its audacious perch : 

TJie favour of a dame too high for thee. 
Theo. Too high indeed ; and liad'st thou 
also added. 

Too good, too fair, I had assented to it. 

Yet, be it known unto your courteous worth, 

That were this sprig a Queen's gift, or re- 
ceived 

From the brown liand of some poor moun- 
tain maid ; 

Yea, or bestow'd upon my rambling head, 

As in the hairy sides of bronzing kid 

The wild rose sticks a spray, unprized, un- 
bidden, 

J would not give it thee. 

Glot. Dost thou so face me out .'' Then I 
will have iL 

(Snatching at it tvith rage.) 

Enter Hartman. 
Hart, (separating thcvi) What ! Malice af- 
ter fighting in the lists 
As noble courteous knights ! 

Glot. {to Hartman.) Go, paltry Banneret ! 
Such friends as thou 
Become such Lords as he, whose ruined 

state 
Seeks the base fellowship of restless burghers ; 
Thinking to humble still, with envious spite, 
The great and noble houses of the land. 
I know ye well, and 1 defy you both, 
With all your damned witchery to-boot. 
[Exit grumhling , followed hy Maurice, SfC. 

Muncnt Theobald and Hattinan. 
Theo. How fierce the creature is, and full 
of folly ! 
Like a shent cur to his own door retired, 
That bristles up his furious back, and there 
Each passenger annoys. — And this is he. 
Whom sordid and ambitious Hugliobert, 
The guardian in the selfish father sunk. 
Destines for Orra's husband. — O foul shame ! 
The carrion-crow and voyaX eagle join'd, 
Make not so cross a match. — But think'st 
thou, Hartman, 



She will submit to it.' 

Hart. That may be as thou pleasest, Falk- 

enstein. 
Theo. Away with mockery ! 
Hart. I mock thee not. 
Theo. Nay, Banneret, thou dost. Saving 
this favour, 
Which every victor in these listed combats 
From Ladies' hands receive, nor then regard 
As more than due and stated courtesy, 
Slie ne'er hath honour'd me with word or 

look 
Such hope to warrant. 

Hart. Wait not thou for looks. 
Theo. Thou would'st not have me to a dame 
like this, 
With rich domains and titled rights encom- 

pass'd, 
These simple limbs, girt in their soldier's gear, 
My barren hills and ruin'd tower pre.sent, 
And say, " Accept — these will I nobly give 
In fair exchange for thee and all thy wealth." 
No, Rudolph, Hartman, woo the maid thy- 
self, 
If thou liast courage for it. 

Hart. Yes, Theobald of Falkenstein, I will, 
And win her too ; but all for thy behoof. 
And when 1 do present, as thou hast said, 
Those simple limbs, girt in tiicir soldier'.'! 

Adding thy barren hills and ruin'd tower. 
With some few items more of gen'rous worth 
And native sense and manly fortitude; 
I'll give her in return for all that she 
Or any maid can in such barter yield, 
Its fair and ample worth. 
Theo. So dost thou reckon. 
Hart. And so will Orra. Do not shake 

thy head. 
I know the maid : for still she has received 

me 
As one who knew her noble father well, 
And in the bloody field in which he died 
Fought by his side, with kind familiarity : 
And her stern guardian, viewing these grey 

hairs 
And this rough visage with no jealous eye, 
Hath still admitted it. I'll woo her for 

thee. 
Theo. I do in truth believe thou mean'st 

me well. 
Hart. And this is all thou say'st.' Cold 

frozen words I 
What has bewitch'd thee, man.-' Is she not 

fair .' 
Theo. O fair indeed as woman need be 

form'd 
To please and be belov'd ! Tho', to speak 

honestly, 
I've fairer seen ; yet such a form as Orra's 
Forever in my busy fancy dwells, 
Whene'er I think of wiving my lone state. 
It is not this; she has too many lures ; 
Why wilt thou urge me on to meet her scorn? 
I am not worthy of her. 

Hart. Qmshing him aicay with gentle anger.) 
Go to ! I praise thy modesty short-while. 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 



343 



And now with dull and senseless perse- 

vcrnncc, 
Thou wor.id'st o'erlay uie with it. Go thy 

ways 1 
If thro' thy fault, thus shrinking from the 

onset, 
She with that furious cub be match'd, 'twill 

rest 
Upon thy conscience like a damning sin. 
And may it gnaw thee shrewdly I [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a small apartment in 

THE CASTLE. 

Enter Rudigere musing gloomily, and mutter- 
ing to himself some time before he speaks 
aloud. 

Rud. No no; it is to formless air dissolved, 
This cherish'd liope, this vision of my brain ! 
{Pacing to and fro, and then slojjping and 

musing as before.) 
I daily stood contrasted in her sight 
With an ungainly fool ; and when she 

smiled, 
Methought But wherefore still upon 

this thought, 
Which was perhaps but a delusion then. 
Brood I with ceaseless torment? Never, 

never ! 
O never more on me, from Orra's eye, 
Approving glance shall light, or gentle look ! 
This day's disgrace mars all my goodly 

dreams. 
My path to greatness is at once shut up. 
Still in the dust my grov'ling fortune lies. 

{Striking his breast in despair.) 
Tame thine aspiring spirit, luckless wretch ! 
There is no hope for thee ! 
And shall I tame it ? No, by saints and 

devils ! 
The laws have cast me off from every claim 
Of house and kindred, and within my veins 
Turn'd noble blood to baseness and reproach : 
I'll cast them off: why shouldthey be to me 
A bar, and no protection ? {Paciyig again to 

and fro, and muttering low for some 

time before he speaks aloud.) 
Aye ; this may still within ray toils enthral 

her : 
This is the weakness of her mind, on which 
I'll clutch my hold. 

Enter Cathrina behind him, laying her hand 
upon him. 
Catk. Ha ! speak'st thou to thyself? 
Rud. (starting.) I did not speak. 
Cath. Thou did'st; thy busy mind gave 
sound to thoughts 
Which thou did'st utter with a quick harsh 

voice, 
Like one who speaks in sleep. Tell me 
their meaning. 
Rud. And dost thou so presume ? Be 
wise; be Innnble. (after a pause.) 
Has Orra oft of late requested thee 
To tell her stories of the restless dead ? 
Of spectres rising at the midnight watch 



By the lone trav'llers' bed ? 

Cath. Wherefore of late dost thou so oft 
inquire 
Of what she says and does ? 

Rud. Be wise, and answer what 1 ask of 
thee ; 
This is thy duty now. 

Cath. Alas, alas ! I know that one false 
step 
Has o'er me set a stern and ruthless master. 
Rud. No, madam ; 'tis thy grave and vir- 
tuous seeming ; 
Thy saint-like carriage, rigid and demvire, 
On which thy high repute so long has stood. 
Endowing thee with right of censorship 
O'er every simple maid, whose cheerful 

youth 
Wears irot so thick a mask, that o'er thee 

sets 
This ruthless master. Hereon rests my 

power : 
I might e.xpose, and therefore I command 
thee. 
Cath. Hush, hush ! approaching steps ! 
They'll find me here ! 
I'll do whate'er thou wilt. 

Rud. It is but Maurice : hie thee to thy 
closet. 
Where I will shortly come to thee. Be thou 
My faithful agent in a weighty matter. 
On which I now am bent, and 1 will prove 
Thy stay and shelter from the world's con- 
tempt. 
Catk. Maurice to find me here ! Where 

shall I hide me ? 
Rzid. Nowhere, but boldly pass him as he 
enters. 
I'll find some good excuse ; he will be silent ; 
He is my agent also. 

Cath. Dost thou trust him ? 
Rud. Avarice his master is as shame is 
thine : 
Therefore I trust to deal with both. — Away ! 

Enter Maurice, passing Cathrina as she 
goes out. 

Maur. What, doth the grave and virtuous 
Cathrina 
Vouchsafe to give thee of her company ? 
Rud. Yes, rigid saint ! she has bestowed 
upon me 
Some grave advice to bear with pious meek- 
ness 
My late discomfiture. 

Maur. Aye, and she call'd it, 
I could be sworn ! heaven's judgment on thy 
pride. 
Rud. E'en so: thou'st guessed it. — Shall 
we to the ramparts 
And meet the western breeze ? [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — a spacious apartment ; 

Enter Hughobert and Urston. 
Hugh, (speaking with angry gesticulation 
as he enters.) I feed and clothe these 
drones, and in return 



344 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY i 



They cheat, deceive, abuse me ; nay, belike. 
Laugh in their sleeve the while i5y their 

advice. 
This cursod tourney I proclaim'd ; for still 
Tiiey puffed me up with praises of my son — 
His grace, his skill in arms, his horseman- 
ship — 
Count Falkenstein to him was but a clown — 
And so, in Orra's eyes to give him honour, 
J\ill surely did I think — I'll hang them all ! 
I'll starve them in a dungeon shut from light: 
I'll heap my boards no more with dainty fare 
To feed false flatterers. 

Urst. That indeed were wise: 
But art thou sure, when men shall speak the 

truth. 
That thou wilt feed them for it? I but hinted 
In gentle words to thee, that Glottenbal 
Was praised with partial or affected zeal. 
And thou receiv'dst it angrily. 

Hugh. Aye, true indeed : but thou did'st 
Speak of him 
As one bereft of all capacity. 
Now tho', God wot ! I look on his defects 
With no blind love, and even in my ire 
Will sometimes call him fool ; yet, neverlhe- 

less, 
lie still has parts and talents, tho' obscured 
By some untoward failings. — Heaven be 

praised ! 
He wants not strength at least and well turn'd 

limbs, 
Had they but taught him how to use them. 

Knaves ! 
They have neglected him. 



Enter Gi.ottenb.\l, who draws back on see- 
ing his Father. 
Advance, young Sir : art thou afraid of me .-" 
That thus thou shrinkest like asculking thief 
To make disgrace the more apparent on thee ? 
Glut. Yes, call it then disgrace, or what 
you please ; 
Had not my lance's point somewhat awry 

Glanced on his shield 

lliiir/t. E'en so; I doubt it not; 
Thy lances point, and every thing about thee 
Hath glanced awry. Go, rid my house, I 

say, 
Of all those feasting flatterers that deceive 

thee ; 
They harbour here no more : dismiss them 
quickly. 
Glot. Do it yourself, my Lord; you are, I 
trow. 
Angry enough to do it sharply. 

Jhiffh. {turning to Urston) Faith ! 
He gibes me fairly here ; there's reason in't ; 
Fools speak not thus, {to Glottenbal) Go to ! 

if I am angry. 
Thou art a graceless son to tell me so. 

Glot. Have you not bid me still to speak 

the truth .'' 
Hugh, {to Urston) Again thou hcar'st he 

makes an apt reply. 
Urst. He wants not words. 
Hugh. Nor meaning neither, Father. 



Enter Eleanora. 



Well Dame ; where hast thou been .' 
Elca. 1 came from Orra. 
Hugh. Hast thou been pleading in our son's 
excuse .' 
And how did she receive it .' 

Elea. I tried to do it, but her present hu- 
mour 
Is jest and merriment. She is behind me, 
Stopping to stroke a hound, that in the corri- 
dor 
Came to her fawningly to be carest. 

Glot. {listening.) Aye she is coming ; light 
and quick her steps ; 
So sound they, when her spirits are unruly. 
But I am bold ; she shall not mock me now. 

Enter Orra, tripping gayly, and playing with 
the folds other scarf. 

Methinks you trip it briskly, gentle Dame. 

Or. Does it offend you, noble Knight ? 

Glot. Go to ! 
I know your meaning. Wherefore smile you 

so .'' 

Or. Because, good sooth ! with tried and 
aching sides 
I have not power to laugh. 

Glot. Full well I know why thou so merry 
art. 
Thou think'st of him to whom thou gav'st 

that sprig 
Of hopeful green, his rusty casque to grace. 
Whilst at thy feet his honour'd glave he laid. 
Or. Nay, rather say, of him, who at my 
feet. 
From his proud courser's back, more gallantly 
Laid his most precious self; then stole away, 
Thro' modesty, unthank'd, nor left behind 
Of all his gear that flutter'd in the dust. 
Or glove or band, or fragment of torn hose. 
For dear remembrance-sake, that in my sleeve 
I mio-ht have stuck it. O ! thou wrong'st me 

° to 

much 
To think my merriment a rcfrcnce hath 
To any one but him. {Laughing.) 

Elea. Nay Orra; these wild fits of uncurb'd 
laughter. 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has low'r'd of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem and strange. 

Or. O nothing strange, my gentle Elea- 
nora ! 
Did'st thou ne'er see the swallows veering 

breast. 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud 
In the sunn'd glimpse of a stormy day, 
Shiver in silv'ry brightness? 
Or boatman's oar as vivid lightning flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path 
Tracks Ihe still waters of some sullen lake? 
Or lonely Tower, from its brown mass of 

woods. 
Give to the parting of a wintry sun 
One hasty glance in mockery of the night 
Closing in darkness round it .' — Gentle 

, Friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday, 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



345 



And may be so to-morrow. 

Glot. And wherefore art thou sad, unless 
it is 
From thine own wayward humour ? Other 

Dames 
Were they so courted, would be gay and hap- 

py- 

Or. Wayward ;t needs must be, since I am 
sad 
When such perfection woos me. 
Pray good Glottenbal, 
How did'st thou learn with such a wond'rous 

grace 
To toss thy armed heels up in the air, 
And clutch with out-spread hands the slipp'ry 

sand .'' 
I was the more amaz'd at thy dexterity. 
As this, of all the feats which thou, before- 
hand, 
Did'st promise to perform, most modestly. 
Thou did'st forbear to mention. 

Glot. Gibe away ! 
I care not for thy gibing. With fair lists 

And no black arts against me 

Hugh, (advancing angrihjfrom the bottom of 
the stage to Glottenbal.) Hold thy 
peace I 
{To Orra.) And, Madam, be at least somewhat 

restrained 
In your unruly humour. 

Or. Pardon, my Lord : 1 knew not you 
were near me. 
My humour is unruly : with your leave, 
I will retire till I have curb'd it better. 
(To Eleanora.) I would not lose your com- 
pany, sweet Countess. 
El. We'll go together then. 

[E.>LEUNT Orra and Eleanora. 
{Ma/net Hughobert ; who paces angrilij about 
the stage, while Glottenbal stands on the 
front, thumping his legs with his sheatlid 
rapier.) 
There is no striving with a forward girl, 
IN or pushing on a fool. My harassed life. 
Day after day, more irksome grows. — Curs'd 

bane ! 
I'll toil no more for this untoward match. 

Enter Rudigeke, stealing behind and listening. 

Rud. You are disturb'd, my Loid. 

Hugh. What ! is it thou .-" I am disturbed 

insooth ! 
Rud. Aye, Orra has been here, and some 
light words 
Of girlish levity have mov'd you. How ! 
Toil for this match no more ! What else re- 
mains. 
If this should be abandon'd, noble Aldenberg, 
That can be worth your toil .'' 

Hugh. I'll match the cub elsewhere. 
Rud. What call ye matching .'' 
Hugh. Surely for him some other virtuous 
maid 
Of high descent, tho' not so richly dowried, 
May be obtain'd. 

Rud. Within your walls, perhaps. 
Some waiting gentle-woman, who percliance 
43 



May be some fifty generations back 
Descended from a king, he will himself. 
Ere long obtain, without your aid, my Lord. 
Hugh. Thou mak'stmemad! tlie dolt ! the 
senseless dolt ! 
What can I do for him .' I cannot force 
A noble maid entrusted to my care : 
I, the sole guardian of her helpless youth. 
Rud. That were indeed unfit : but tliere are 
means 
To make her yield consent. 

Hugh. Then by my faith, good friend, I'll 
call thee .wizard, 
If thou can'st find them out. What means 

already, 
Short of compulsion, have we left untried .'' 
And now the term of my axitliority 
Wears to its close. 
Rud. I know it well ; and therefore power- 
ful means. 
And of quick operation, must be sought. 
Hugh. Speak plainly to me. 
Rud. I have watch'd her long: 
I've seen her cheek flush'd with the rosy glow 
Of jocund spirits, deadly pale become 
At tale of nightly sprite or apparition. 
Such as all hear, 'tis true, with greedy ears, 
Saying, " Saints save us ! " but forget as 

quickly. 
I've mark'd her long: she has, with all her 

shrewdness 
And playful merriment, a gloomy fancy, 
That broods within itself on fearful things. 
Hugh. And what doth this avail us ? 
Rud. Hear me out. 
Your ancient castle in the Suabian forest 
Hath, as too well you know, belonging to it, 
Or false or true, frightful reports. 'There hold 

her 
Strictly confined in sombre banishment ; 
And doubt not but she will, ere long, full 

gladly 
Her freedom purchase at the price you name. 
Hugh. On what pretence can I confine her 
there .' 
It were most odious. 

Rud. Can pretence be wanting ? 
Has she not favour shewn to Theobald, 
Who in your neighbourhood, with his sworn 

friend 
The Banneret of Basle, suspiciously 
Prolongs his stay ? A poor and paltry Count, 
Unmeet to match with her. And want ye 

then 
A reason for removing her with speed 
To some remoter quarter .'' Out upon it ! 
You are too scrupulous. 

Hugh. Thy scheme is good, but cruel. 
(Glottenbal — icho has Icen drawing nearer to 
them, and attending to the last part of their 
discourse.) 

Glot. O much I like it, dearly wicked Ru- 
digere ! 
She then will turn her mind to other thoughts 
Than scornful gibe at me. 

Hugh. I to her father swore I would pro- 
tect her : 



34G 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 



I would fullill his will. 
Rud. And, in that will, her father did de- 
sire 
She might be match'd with this your only son ; 
Tlieretbre you're tirml'y bound all means to 

use 
That may the end attain. 
Hug/i. Walk forth with me; we'll talk of 
this at large. 

[Exeunt Hugh, and Rud. 

(Manet Glottcnbal, who comes forward from 

the boltum of the stage ivitli the action of a 

knight ailLyincing to the charge.) 

Yes, thus it is : 1 have the slight o't now : 

And were the combat yet to come, I'd shew 

them 
I'm not a whit behind the bravest knight, 
Cross luck excepted. 

Enter M.iURiCE. 

Maur. My Lord, indulge us of your cour- 
tesy. 
Glot. In what, 1 pray .'' 
Maur. Did not Fernando tell you .' 
We are all mot within our social bower ; 
And I have wager'd on your head, that none 
But you alone, within the Count's domains, 
Can to the bottom drain the chased horn. 
Come; do not linger here when glory calls 
you. 
Glot. Think'st thou that Theobald could 

drink so stoutly .' 
Maur. He, paltry chief! he herds with so- 
ber burghers ; 
A goblet, half its size, would conquer him. 

[E.XEUNT. 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. — a garden with trees and 
shrubs, &c. orra, theobald, and 

HARTMAN are discovered in a SHA- 
DED WALK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE 
STAGE, SPEAKING IN DUMB SHOW, 
WHICH THEY CROSS, DISAPPEARING 
BEHIND THE TREES, AND ARE PRE- 
SENTLY FOLLOWED BY CATHRINA 
AND ALICE, WHO CONTINUE WALKING 
there: ORRA, THEOBALD, AND HART- 
MAN THEN APPEAR AGAIN, ENTERING 
NEAR THE FRONT OF THE STAGE. 

Or. {talking to Hart as she enters.) And so, 
since fate has made me, woe the day ! 
That poor and good-for-nothing, helpless be- 
ing, 
Woman yclept, I must consign myself 
With all my lands and rights into the hands 
Of some i)roud man, and say, "Take all, I 

And do me in return the grace and favour 
To be my master." 

Hart. Nay, gentle lady ! you constrain my 
word.s, 



And load them with a meaning harsh and 

foreign 
To what they truly bear. — A master! No: 
A valiant gentle mate, who in the field 
Or in the council will maintain your right : 
A noble, equal partner. 

Or. (shaking her head.) Well I know 
in such a partnership, the share of power 
Allotted to the wife. See; noble Falkenstein 
Hath silent been the wliile, nor spoke one 

word 
In aid of all your specious arguments, 
What's your advice, my Lord.' {to Tlieo.) 

Thco. Ah, noble Orra ! 
'Twere like self-murder to give honest coun- 
sel: 
Then urge me not. — I frankly do confess 
I should be more heroic than 1 am. 

Or. Right well I see thy head approves my 
plan, 
And by and by, so will thy gen'rous heart. 
In short, I would, without another's leave, 
Improve the low condition of my peasants, 
And cherish them in peace. Ev'n now mc- 

thinks 
Each little cottage of my native vale 
Swells out its earthen sides, up-iieaves its 

roof, 
Like to a hillock mov'd by lab'ring mole, 
And with green trail-weeds clambring up its 

walls, 
Roses and cv'ry gay and fragrant plant, 
Before my fanc^' stands, a fairy bower. 
.Aye, and within it too do fairies dwell. 
{hooking ^dayfully thro' her fingers like a 

sheio-glass.) 
Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close; and tJiere 

within 
Thou'ltsee some half a dozen rosy brats, 
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty 

milk ; — 
Those are my mountain elves. See'st thou 

not 
Their very forms distinctly ? 

Thco. O most distinctly ! And most beau- 
tiful 
The sight ! Which sweetly stirreth in the 

heart 
Feelings that gladden and ennoble it, 
Dancing like sun-beams on the rippled sea : 
A blessed picture ! Foul befall the man. 
Whose narrow selfish soul would shade or 
mar it ! 
Hart. To this right heartily I say Amen ! 
But if there be a man, whose gen'rous soul 

{turning to Orra.) 
Like ardour fills ; who wo»ld with thee pur- 
sue 
Thy gen'rous plan; who would his harness 
don — 
Or. {jnitting her hand on him, in gentle in- 
terruption.) Nay, valiant Banneret, 
who would, an' please you. 
His liarncss doff: all feuds, all strife forbear, 
AH military rivalship, all lust 
or added power, and hve in steady quietness 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY i 



347 



A mild and fost'ring Lord. Know you of 

one 
That would so share my taskj? — You answer 

not. 
And your brave friend'metliinks casts on the 

ground 
A thoughtful look"; wots he of such a Lord ? 

(to Theo.) 
Theo. Wot I of such a Lord !— No, noble 
Orra, 
I do not, nor does Hartman, tho' perhaps 
His friendship may betray his judgment. No[; 
None such exist ; we are all fierce, conten- 
tious, 
Restless and proud, and prone to vengeful 

feuds ; 
The very distant sound of war excites us, 
Like coursers list'ning to the chase, who paw 
And fret and bite the curbing rein. Trust 

none 
To cross thy gentle, but most princely pur- 
pose, 
Who hath on head a circling helmet wore, 
Or ever grasp'd a glavo. — But ne'ertheless 
Tliere is — I know a man. — Might I be bold ? 
Or. Being so honest, boldness is your right. 
Theo. Permitted then, I'll say, I know a 
man, 
Tho' most unworthy Orra's Lord to be, 
Who, as her champion, friend, devoted sol- 
dier. 
Might yet commend himself 3 and, so receiv- 
ed, 
Who would 'at her command, for her defence 
His sword right proudly draw. An honour'd 

sword, 
Like that which at the ffate of Paradise 
From steps profane the blessed region guard- 
ed. 
Or. Thanks to the gen'rous knight ! I also 
know 
The man thou would'st commend ; and when 

my state 
Such service needeth, to no sword but his 
Will 1 that service owe. 

Theo. Most noble Orra ! greatly is he hon- 
our'd : 
And will not murmur that a higher wish, 
Too high, and too presumptuous, is represt. 
(Kissing her hand iclth great respect^ 
Or. Nay, Rodolph Hartman, clear that 
cloudy brow. 
And look on Falkenstcin and on myself. 
As two co-burghers of thy native city, 
(For such I mean ere long to be,) and claim- 
ing 
From thee, as cadets from an elder born. 
Thy cheering equal kindness. 

Enter a Servant. 
5er. The Count is now at leisure to receive 
The Lord of Falkenstein, and Rodolph Hai-t- 
man. 
Hart. We shall attend him shortly. 

[Exit Servant. 
{Aside to Theo.) — Must we now 
Our purpos'd suit, to some pretended matter 



Of slighter import change .' 

Theo. (to Hart, aside.) Assuredly. — 
Madam, I take my leave with all devotion. 
Hart. I with all friendly wishes. 

[Exeunt Theo. and Hart. 

(Cathrina and Alice now advance through the 

shrubs, ^-c. at the bottom of the stage, ichile 

Orra remains, wrapped in thought, on the 

front.) 

Cath. Madam, you 're thoughtful] some- 
thing occupies 
Your busy mind. 

Or. What was't we talk'd of, when the 
worthy Banneret 
With Falkenstein upon our converse broke .' 
Cath. How we should spend our time, when 
in your castle 
You shall your state maintain in ancient splen- 
dour. 
With all your vassals round you. 
Or. Aye, so it was. 
Ml. And you did say, my Lady, 
It should not be a cold unsocial grandeur : 
That you would keep, the while, a merry 
house. 
Or. O doubt it not ! I'll gather round my 
board 
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks, 
And noble travellers, and neighb'rino- friends. 
Both young and old. Within my ample hall, 
The worn-outman of arms, (of whom too many, 
Nobly descended, rove like reckless vaorants 
From one proud chieftain's castle to another, 
Half chid, half honour'd.) shall o' tip-toe tread, 
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 
With cheerful freedom , as he boasts liis feats 
Of days gone by. — Music we'll have ; and oft 
The bickring dance upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant 

ear 
Of 'nighted trav'llers, who shall gladly bend 
Their doubtful footsteps tow'rds the cheering 

din. 
Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure 
We shall not be. Will this content ye, dam- 
sels ? 
M. O passing well ! 'twill be a pleasant 
life; 
Free from all stern subjection ; blithe and fan- 
ciful ; 
We'll do whate'er we list. 

Cath. That right and prudent is, I hope 

thou meanest. 
M. Why ever so suspicious and so strict ? 
How could'st thou tliink I had another mean- 
ing .' 
( To Orra.) And shall we ramble in the woods 

full oft 
With hound and horn ? — that is my dearest 

joy- 

Or. Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do 

not doubt 
This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season 
Shall have its suited pastime : even Winter 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with 

snow. 
And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bac 



348' 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, 
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale be- 
tween. 
Cath. And stories too, I ween, of ghosts 
and spirits. 
And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve 
Rise from the yawning tombs. 

Or. Thou thinkest then one night o' th' 
year is truly 
More horrid than the rest. 

Cath. Perliaps 'tis only silly superstition : 
But yet it is well known the Count's brave 

father 
Would rather on a glacier's point have lain, 
By angry tempests rock'd, than on that night 
Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle. 
Or. How, pray .' What fearful thing did 

scare him so ^ 
Cath. Hast thou ne'er heard the story of 
Count Hugo, 
His ancester, who slew the hunter-knight.'' 
Or. {eagerly .) Tell it I pray thee. 
M. Cathrina, tell it not : it is not right : 
Such stories ever change her cheerful spirits 
To gloomy pensiveness; her rosy bloom 
To the wan colour of a slirouded corse. 
{To Orra.) What pleasure is there, Lady, when 

thy hand. 
Cold as the valley's ice, with hasty grasp 
Seizes on her who speaks, while thy shrunk 

form 
Cow'ring and shiv'ring stands with keen 

turn'd ear 
To catch what follows of the pausing tale ^ 
Or. And let me cow'ring stand, and be my 
touch 
The valley's ice : there is a pleasure in it. 
M. Say'st thou indeed there is a pleasure 

in it .' 
Or. Yea, when the cold blood shoots through 
every vein : 
When every hair's-pit on my shrunken skin 
A knotted knoll becomes, and to mine ears 
Strange inward sounds awake, and to niine 

eyes 
Rush stranger tears, there is a joy in fear. 

( Catching hold of Cathrina.) 
Tell it, Cathrina, for the life within me 
Beats thick, and stirs to hear it. 
He slew the hunter-knight.'' 

Cath. Since I must tell it, then, tlie story 
goes 
That grim Count Wallenberg, the ancestor 
Of Hughobert and also of yourself. 
From hatred or from envy, did decoy 
A noble knight, who hunted in the forest, 
Well the Black Forest named, into his castle, 
And there, within his chamber, murder'd 
him — 
Or. Merciful Heaven ! and ia my veins 
there runs 
A murderer's blood. Said'st thou not, mur- 
der'd him ? 



Cath. Aye; as he lay asleep, at dead of 

night. 
Or. A deed most horrible ! 
Cath. It was on Michael's eve ; and since 
that time. 
The neighb'ring hinds oft hear the midnight 

yell 
Of spectre-hounds, and see the spectre shapes 
Of huntsmen on their sable steeds, with still 
A nobler hunter riding in their van 
To cheer the desp'rate chace, by moonlight 

shewn, 
When wanes its horn, in long October nights. 
Or. This hath been often seen .' 
Cath. Aye, so they say. 
But, as the story goes, on Michael's eve, 
And on that night alone of all the year. 
The hunter-knight himself, having a horn 
Thrice sounded at the gates, the castle en- 
ters ; 
And, in the very chamber where he died, 
Calls on his murd'rer, or in his default 
Some true descendant of his house, to loose 
His spirit from its torment; for liis body 
Is laid i' the earth unbless'd, and none can 

tell 
The spot of its interment. 

Or. Call on some true descendant of his 
race ! 
It were to such a fearful interview. 

But in that chamber, on that nigiit alone 

Hath he elsewhere to any of the race 

Appear'd ? or hath he power 

Al. Nay, nay, forbear : 
See how she looks. {To Orra.) I fear thou art 
not well. 
Or. There is a sickly faintness come upon 

me. 
M. And did'st thou say there is a joy in 

fear .'' 
Or. My mind of late has strange impressions 
ta'en. 
I know not how it is. 

Jll. A few nights since. 
Stealing o'tiptoe, softly thro' your chamber, 

Towards my own 

Or. O Heaven defend us ! did'st thou see 

aught there .■' 
.31. Only your sleeping self But you ap- 
pear'd 
Distress'd and troubled in your dreams ; and 

once 
I thought to wake you ere I left the chamber, 
But I forbore. 

Or. And glad I am thou did'st. 
It is not dreams I fear ; for still with me 
There is an indistinctness o'er them cast, 
Like the dull gloom of misty twilight, where 
Before mine eyes pass all incongruous things, 
Huge, horrible and strange, on which 1 stare 
As idiots do upon this changeful world 
With nor surprise nor speculation. No ; 
Dreams I fear not : it is the dreadful waking, 
When in deep midnight stillness, the roused 

fancy 
Takes up th' imperfect shadows of it« sleep, 



ORRA I A TRAGEDY. 



349 



Like a marr'd speech snatch'd from a bung- 
ler's mouth, I 
Shaping their forms distinctively and vivid 
Tm visions horrible : — this is my bane ; — 
It is the dreadful waking that I fear. 

Jl. Well, speak of other tilings. Therein 
good time 
Your ghostly father conies with quicken'd 

steps, 
Like one who bears some tidings good or ill. 
Heaven grant they may be good ! 
Enter Urston. 
Or. Father, you seem disturb'd. 
Urst. Daughter, I am in truth disturb'd. 
The Count 
Has o'the sudden, being much enraged 
That Falkenstein still lingers near these walls, 
Resolv'd to send thee hence, to be a while 
In banishment detained, till on his son 
Thou look'st with better favour. 

Or. Aye, indeed ! 

That is to say perpetual banishment; 
A sentence light or heavy, as the place 
Is sweet or irksome he would send me to. 
Urst. He will contrive to make it, doubt 
him not, 
Irksome enough. Therefore I would advise 

thee 
To feign at least, but for a little time, 
A disposition to obey his wishes. 
He's stern, but not relentless ; and his dame, 
The gentle Eleanor, will still befriend you. 
When fit occasion serves. 

Or. What said'st thou, Father ? 

To feign a disposition to obey ! 
I did mistake thy words. 

Urst. No, gentle daughter ; 

So press'd, thou mayest feign and yet be 

blameless. 
A trusty guardian's faith with thee he holds 

not. 
And therefore thou art free to meet his 

wrongs 
With what defence thou hast. 

Or. (proudly.) Nay, pardon me; I, with an 
unshorn crown. 
Must hold the truth in plain simplicity. 
And am in nice distinctions most unskil- 
ful. 
Urst. Lady, have I deserv'd this sharpness.' 
Oft 
Thine infant hand has strok'd this shaven 

crown : 
Thou'st ne'er till now reproach'd it. 

Or. {bursting into tears.) Pardon, O pardon 
me, my gentle Urston ! 
Pardon a wayward child, whose eager tem- 
per 
Doth sometimes mar the kindness of her 

heart. 
Father, am I forgiven.' {Hanging onhim.) 
Urst. Thou art, thou art : 

Thou art forgiven; more than forgiven, ray 
child. 
Or. Then lead me to the Count, I will my- 
self 



Learn his stern purpose. 

Urst. ^"^ *^liG hall he is, 

Seated in state, and waiting to receive you. 

[E.XEUNT. 



Scene'IIL- 

baron's 

STATE. 



-A SPACIOUS APARTMENT, OR 
HALL, WITH A CHAIR OF 



HuGHOBERT, Eleanora, and Glottenbal 
enter near the Front, speaking as they enter ; 
and afterwards enter Vassels and Attendants, 
who range themselves at the bottom of the 
Stage. 

Hugh. Cease, Dame ! I will not hear ; thou 
striv'st in vain 
With thy weak pleadings. Orra hence must 

go 
Within the hour, unless she will engage 
Her plighted word to marry Glottenbal. 
Glot. Aye, and a mighty hardship, by the 

mass ! 
Hugh. I've summon'd her in solemn form 
before me. 
That these my vassals should my act approve, 
Knowing my right of guardianship ; and also 
That her late fatlier, in his dying moments^ 
Did will she should be married to my son ; 
Which will, she now must promise to obey,^ 
Or take the consequence. 

El. But why so hasty .' 

Hugh. Why, say'st thou? Falkenstein still 
in these parts 
Lingers with sly intent. Even now he leftme,^ 
After an interview of small importance. 
Which he and Hartman, as a blind pretence 
For seeing Orra, formally requested. 
I say again she must forthwith obey me, 
Or take the consequence of wayward wilL 

El. Nay, not for Orra do I now entreat 
So muchas for thyself. Bethink thee well 
What honour thou shalt have, when it is. 

known 
Thy ward from thy protecting roof was sent ; 
Thou who should'st be to her a friend, a father.. 
Hugh. But do I send her unprotected } 
No! 
Brave Rudigere conducts her with a band 
Of trusty spearmen. In her new abode 
She will be safe as here. 

El. Ha! Rudigere! 

Put'st thou such trust in him.' Alas, my 

Lord ! 
His heart is full of cunning and deceit. 
Wilt thou to him the flower of all thy race 
Rashly intrust.' O be advised, my Lord ! 
Hugh. Thy ghostly father tells thee so, I 
doubt not. 
Another priest confesses Rudigere, 
And Urston likes him not. But canst thou 

think, 
With aught but honest purpose, he would 

choose 
From all her women the severe Cathrina, 
So strictly virtuous, for her companion .' 
Thia puts all doubt to silence. Say no more, 



360 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 



Else I shall think tliou plead'st against my 

son, 
More with a step-dame's than a mother's feel- 
ings. 
Glot. Aye, marry does she father ! And 
forsooth, 
Regards me as a fool. No marvel then 
That Orra scorns me ; being tauglit by her^ — 
How sliould she else ? — So to consider me. 
Hug/i. (to Glottenbal.) Tut! hold thy 

tongue. 
EL He wrongs me much, my Lord. 

Hugh. No more, for here she comes. 

Enter Orra, attended by Urston, Alice and 
Cathrina; and Hcghobert seats himself in 
his cliair of state, the Vassals, &,c. ranging 
themselves on each side. 

Hugh, (to Orra.) Madam and ward, placed 
under mine autliority. 
And to my cliarge committed by my kins- 
man, 
Ulric of Aldenberg, thy noble father ; 
Having all gentle means essay 'd to win thee 
To the fulfilment of his dying will, 
That did decree his heiress should be mar- 
ried 
With Glottenbal my heir ; T solemnly 
Now call upon thee, ere that rougher means 
Be used for this good end, to promise truly, 
Tliou wilt, within a short and stated time. 
Before the altar give thy plighted faith 
To this my only son. I wait thine answer. 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou do this.^ 

Or. Count of the same, my lord and guar- 
dian, 
I will not. 

Hugh. Have a care , thou froward maid I 
'Tis thy last opportunity : ere long 
Thou shall, within a dreary dwelling pent. 
Count thy dull hours, told by the dead man's 

watch. 
And wish thou had'st not been so proudly 
wilful. 
Or. And let my dull hours by the dead 
man's watch 
Be told ; yea, make me too the dead man's 

mate. 
My dwelling place the nailed coffin ; still 
I would prefer it to the living Lord 
Your goodness ofiers me. 

Hugh. Art thou bewitch'd ? 

le he not young, well featured and well 

form'd ? 
And dost thou put him in thy estimation 
With bones and sheeted clay .■' 
Beyond endurance is thy stubborn spirit. 
Rigiit well tliy fatiier knew that all thy- sex 
Stubborn and headstrong are; therefore, in 

wisdom, 
He vested me with power that might compel 

thee 
To what he will'd should be. 

Or. O not in wisdom ! 

Say rather in that weak, but gen'rous faith. 
Which said to him, the cor)e of heaven would 
fall 



And smother in its crac'le his swath'd babe, 
Rather than tliou, his mate in arms, his 

kinsman. 
Who by his side in many a field had fought, 
Should'st take advantage of iiis confidence 
For sordid ends — 

My brave and noble father ! 
A voice comes from thy grave and cries against 

it. 
And bids me to be bold. Thine av/ful form 
Rises before me. — and that look of anguish 
On tiiy dark brow ! — O no ! I blame thee 
not. 
Hugh. Thou seem'st beside thyself with 
such wild gestures 
And strangely-flashing eyes. Repress these 

fancies. 
And to plain reason listen. Thou hast said, 
For sordid ends I have advantage ta'en. 
Since thy brave father's death, by war and 

compact, 
Thou of thy lands hast lost a third ; whilst I, 
Bv happy fortune, in my heir's behalf, 
Have doubled my domains to what they 

were 
When Ulric chose him as a match for thee. 
Or. O, and whatspeaketh this, but tiiatmy 
father 
Domains regarded not; and thought a man, 
Such as the son should be of such a man 
As thou to him appear'dst, a match more hon- 
ourable 
Than one of ampler state. Take thou from 

Glottenbal 
The largely added lands of which thou boast- 

est. 
And put, in lieu thereof into his stores 
Some weight of manly sense and gen'rous 

worth, 
And I will say thou kecp'st faith with thy 

friend : 
But as it is, did'st thou unto thy we alth 
A kingdom add, thou poorly would'st deceive 
him. 
Hugh. (Rising from his chair in anger.) 
Now, Madam, be all counsel on this matter 
Between us closed. Prepare thee for thy 
journey. 
El. Nay, good my Lord ! consider. 
Hugh, (to Elcanora.) What, again ! 

Have I not said thou hast an alien's heart 
From me and mine. Learn to respect my 

will 
In silence, as becomes a youthful Dame. 
Urst. For a few days may she not still re- 
main .'' 
Hugh. No, priest ; not for an hour. It is my 
pleasure 
That she for Brunier's castle do set forth 
Without delay. 

Or. (with a faint starting movement.) In 

. Brunier's castle ! 
Hugh. Aye ; 

And doth this change the colour of thy 

cheek. 
And give thy alter'd voice a feebler sound .'' 
(aside to Glottenbal.) 



ORKA: A TRAGEDY, 



351 



She shrinks, now to her, boy; this is thy 
time. 
Glot. (to Orra.) Unless thou wilt, tlicu 
need'st not go at all. 
There is full many a maiden would right 

gladly 
Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 
(.4 ■pause.) Wilt thou not answer me .' 

Or. I did not hear thee speak. — I heard 
thy voice, 
But not thy words : What said'st thou .' 
Glot. 1 say there's many a maiden would 
right gladly 
Accept the terms we offer, and remain. 
The daugiiter of a king hath match'd ere 

now 
With mine inferior. We are link'd together 
As 'twere by right and natural property. 
And as I've said before I say again, 
I love thee too : What more could'st thou de- 
sire 1 
Or. I thank thee for thy courtship, tho' 
uncouth ; 
For it confirms my purpose ; and my 

strength 
Grows as thou speak'st, firm like the deep- 

bas'd rock, 
(to Hughobert.) Now for my journey when 

you will, my Lord ; 
I'm ready. 

Hugh. Be it so ! on thine own head 

Rest all the blame. (Going from her.) 

Perverse past all relief! 
( Turning round to her sternhj.) 
Orra of Aldenberg, wilt thou obey me ? 

Or. Count of that noble house, with all 
respect, 
Again I say I will not. 

[Exit Hughobert in anger, followed hj Glot- 
tenbal, Urston, S^'C. Mavent only Eleano- 
ra, Cathrina, Alice and Orra, loho keeps 7ip 
with stately pride till Hughobert, and all 
Attendants are gone out, and then tliroioing 
herself into the arms of JEleanora, g^ives vent 
to her feelings .) 

El. Sweet Orra ! be not so depress'd ; thou 
goest 
For a short terra, soon to return again ; 
The banishment is mine wlio stays behind. 
But I will beg of Heaven with ceaseless 

prayers 
To have thee soon restored : and, when I 

dare. 
Will plead with Hughobert in thy behalf; 
He is not always stern. 

Or. Thanks, gentle friend ! Thy voice to 
me doth sound 
Like the last sounds of kindly nature ; dearly 
In my remembrance shall they rest.— What 

sounds, 
What sights, what horrid intercourse I may, 
Ere we shall meet again, be doora'd to prove. 
High Heaven alone doth know. If that in- 
deed 
We e'er shall meet again !• (Falls on her neck 
and weeps.) 



El. Nay, nay ! come to my chamber. There 
awhile 
Compose your spirits. Be not so deprcst. 

[Exeunt. 

(Rudigere, who has appeared, during the last 

part of the alove scene, at the bottom of the 

stage, half concealed, as if upon ike watch, 

now comes foncard.) 

(Speaking as he advances.) Hold firm her 
pride till faiily from these walls 
Our journey is begun ; tlien fortune hail ! 
Tliy iavours are secured. (Looking off the 
stage.) 

Ho, Maurice there ' 

Enter Maurice. 
My faithful Maurice, I would speak with 

thee. 
I leave thee here behind me ; to thy care. 
My int'rests I commit ; be it thy charge 
To counteract thy Lady's influence. 
Who will entreat her Lord the term to sliort- 

en 
Of Orra's absence, maiming thus my plan, 
Which must, belike, have time to be effected. 
Be vigilant, be artful ; and be sure 
Tiiy services I amply will repay. 

Maur. Aye, thou hast said so, and I have 

believed thee. 
Rud. And dost thou doubt.? 
Maur. No; yet m.ean time, good sooth ! 
If somewhat of thy bounty I migJit finger, 
'Twere well: I hke to have some actual 

proof 
Did'st thou not promise it .' 

Rud. "Tis true I did. 

But other pressing calls have drain'd my 
means. 
Maur. And other pressing calls within my 
mind, 
May make my faith to falter. 

Rud. Go to ! I know thou art a greedy 
leech, 
Tho' ne'ertheless thou lov'st me. (Taking a 
small case from his pocket, luhich he 
opens.) 

See'st thou here .■' 
I have no coin ; but look upon these jewels : 
I took them from a knight I slew in battle. 
When I am Orra's lord, thoushalt receive. 
Were it ten thousand crowns, whate'er their 

wortli 
Shall by a skilful lapidary be 
In honesty esteem'd. (Gives him the jewels.) 
Maur. I thank thee, but methinks their 
lustre's dim. 
I've seen the stones before upon tliy breast. 
In gala days, but never heard thee boast 
They were of so mucli value. 
Rud. I was too prudent : I had lost them 
else. 
To no one but thyself would I entrust 
The secret of their value. 

Enter Servant. 
Ser. Sir Rudigere, the spearmen are with 
out. 



362 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Waiting your further orders, for the journey. 
Rad. (to Servant.) I'll come to them anon. 
[Exit Servant. 
Before I go, I'll speak to thee again. 

[Exeunt scveralhj. 



ACT III. 
Scene I. — a forest with a h.\lf-ru- 

INED CASTLE IN THE BACK GROUND, 
SEEN THROUGH THE TREES BY MOON- 
LIGHT. FRANKO AND SEVERAL OUT- 
LAWS ARE DISCOVERED SITTING ON 
THE GROUND, ROUND A FIRE, WITH 
FLAGGONS, &.C. BY THEM, AS IF THEY 
HAD BEEN DRINKING. 

SONG of several voices. 
The cough and crow to roost are gone, 

The owi sits on the tree, 
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, 

Lilie infant charity. 

The wild-fire dances on the fen, 

The red star sheds its ray, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Both child and nurse are fast asleep. 

And clos'd is every flower. 
And wini^ing tapers faintly peep 

High from my Lady's bower ; 

Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken 

Shrink on their murky way, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Nor board nor garner own we now. 

Nor roof nor latched door. 
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow 

To bless a good man's store ; 

Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, 

And night is grown our day, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

And use it as ye may. 

'(Frank, {to 1st Out.) How lik'st thou this, 

Fernando .' 
1st Out. Well sung i'faith ! but serving ill 

our turn. 
Who would all trav'llers and benighted folks 
Scare from our precincts. Such sweet har- 
mony 
Will rather tempt invasion. 

Frank. Fear not, for mingled voices, heard 

afar, 
Thro' glade and glen and thicket, stealing 

on 
To distant list'ners, seem wild-goblin-sounds ; 
At which the lonely trav'Uer checks his steed. 
Pausing with long-drawn breath and keen- 

turn'd ear ; 
And twilight pilferers cast down in haste 
Their ill-got burthens, while the homeward 

hind 
Turns from his path, full many a mile about, 



Thro' bog and mire to grope his blund'ring 

way. 
Such, to the startled ear of superstition, 
Were seraph's song, could we like seraphs 

sing. 

Enter 1st Ojtlaw hastily. 

2d Out. Disperse ye different ways: we 

are undone. 
Frank. How say 'st thou, shrinking poltron ? 

we undone. 
Outlaw'd and ruin'd men, who live by 

daring ! 
2d Out. A train of armed men, some noble 

Dame 
Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discov- 

er'd 
As unperceived I hung upon their rear,) 
Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night 
Within the castle. 

Frank. Some benighted travellers. 
Bold from their numbers, or who ne'er have 

heard 
The ghostly legend of this dreaded place. 
1st Out. Let us keep close within our vault- 
ed haunts ; 
The way to which is tangled and perplex'd, 
And cannot be discover'd : with the morn 
They will depart. 

trunk. Nay, by the holy mass ! within 

those walls 
Not for a night must trav'llers quietly rest, 
Or few or many. Would we live securely, 
We must uphold the terrors of the place : 
Therefore, let us prepare our midnight rouse. 
See, from the windows of the castle gleam 

(lights seen from the castle.) 
Quick passing lights, as tho' they moved 

within 
In hurried preparation ; and that bell, 

(bell heard.) 
Which from yon turret its shrill 'larum sends, 
Betokens some unwonted stir. Come, hearts I 
Be all prepared, before the midnight watch, 
The fiend-like din of our infernal chace 
Around the walls to raise. — Come ; night 

advances. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a gothic room in the 

CASTLEj WITH THE STAGE DARKENED. 

Enter Cathrina, bearing a light, followed by 
Orra. 

Or. {Catching her by the robe a7id pulling 
her back.) Advance no further : turn 
I pray ! This room 
More dismal and more ghastly seems than 

that 
Which we have left behind. Thy taper's 

light. 
As thus aloft thou wav'st it to and fro. 
The fretted cieling gilds with feeble bright- 
ness. 
Whilst over-head its carved ribs glid past 
Like edgy waves of a dark sea, returning 
To an eclipsed moon its sullen sheen. 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 



353 



■Cuth. To me it seems less dismal than the 
other. 
See, here are chairs around tJie table set, 
As if its last inhabitants had left it 
Scarcely an hour ago. 

( Setting the liglit upon the table.) 

Or. Alas ! how many hours and years 

have past 

Since human forms have round this table sat, 

Or lamp or taper on its surface gleam'd ! 

Methinks I hear the sound of time long 

past 
Still murm'ring o'er us'injthe lofty void 
Of those dark arches, like the ling'ring voices 
Of those who long within their graves have 

slept. 
It was their gloomy home ; now it is mine. 
{Sits doioti, resting her arm upon the table and 
covering her cijesacith her lumd.) 

Enter Ruuigere, beckoning Gathrina to 
come to him ; and speaks to her m a low voice 
at the corner of the stage. 
Go and prepare thy Lady's chamber ; why 
Dost thou forever closely near her keep ^ 
Cuth. Slie cliarged me so to do: 
Riid. I charge thee also, 
With paramount authority, to leave her ; 
I for a while will take Ihy station here. 
Thou art not mad .' Thou dost not hesitate .' 
{Fixing his eyes on her with a fierce threat- 
ening look, from which she shrinks.) 

[Exit Cath. 
Or. This was the home_ of bloody lawless 
power : 
The very air rests thick and heavily 
Where murder hath^been done. 

{Sighing heavilij.) There is a] strange op- 
pression in "my breast ; 
Dost thou not feel a close unwholesome va- 
pour .'' 
Rud. No; ev'ry [air to me 'is light and 
healthful. 
That with thy sweet and heavenly breath is 
mix'd. 
Or. {Starting up.) Thou here ? 

{Looking round.) Cathrina gone ? 
Rud. Does Orra fear to be alone with one, 
Whose weal, whose being on her favour 
hangs ? 
Or. Retire, Sir Knight. I choose to be 

alone. 
Rud. And dost thou choose it, wearing now 
so near 
The midnight hour, in such a place .' — Alas ! 
How loath'd and irksome must my presence 
be ! 
Or. Dost thou not deride my weakness .'' 
Rud. I deride it ! 
No, noble Maid ! say rather that from thee 
I have a kindred weakness caught. In battle 
My courage never shrunk, as my arm'd heel 
And crested helm do fairly testify: 
But now when midnight comes, I feel by 

sympathy, 
With thinking upon thee, fears rise within 
me 

4.t 



I never knew before. 

Or. {in a softened kindlier voice.) Ha ! dost 

thou too 
Such human weakness own } 

Rud. I plainly feel 
We are all creatures, in the wakeful hour 
Of ghastly midnight, form'd to cower to- 
gether, 
Forgetting all distinctions of the day. 
Beneath its awful and m}'sterious power. 
{StfMling closer to her as he speaks, and jnit- 
ting his arms round her.) 
Or. {breaking from him.) I pray thee hold 

thy parley further off: 
Why dost thou press so near me ? 
Rud. And art thou so offended, lovely 

Orra .-' 
Ah ! wherefore am I thua presumptuous 

deem'd ? 
The blood that fdls thy veins enriches mine ; 
From the same stock we spring ; tho' by that 

glance 
Of thy disdainful eye, too well I see 
My birth erroneously tliou countcst base. 
Or. Erroneously ! 
Rud. Yes, I will prove it so. 
Longer I'll not endure a galling wrong 
Which makes each word of tenderness thai, 

bursts 
From a full heart, bold and presumptuous 

seem, 
And severs us so far. 

Or. No, subtile snake ! 
It is the baseness of thy selfish mind, 
Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit, 
That severs us so far, and shall do ever. 
Rud. Thou prov'st how far my passion will 

endure 
Unjust reproaches from a mouth so dear. 

Or. Out on hypocrisy ! who but thyself 
Did Hughobert advise to send me hither .'' 
And who the jailor's hateful office holds 
To make my thraldom sure .'' 
Rud. Upbraid me not for this : had I re- 

fused. 
One less thy friend had ta'en th' ungracious 

task. 
And, gentle Orra ! dost thou know a man, 
Who might in ward all that his soul holds 

dear 
From danger keep, yet would the charge re 

fuse, 
For that strict right such wardship doth con 

demn .•" 
O ! still to be with thee ; to look upon thee 
To hear thy voice, makes ev'n this place c 

horrors, — 
Where, as 'tis said, the spectre of a chief, 
Slain by our common grandsire, haunts the 

night, 
A paradise — a place where I could live 
In penury and gloom, and be most bless'd. 
Ah ! Orra ! if there's misery in thraldom. 
Pity a wretch who breathes but in thy favour : 
Who, till he look'd upon that beauteous face, 
Was free and happy. — Pity me or kill me ! 
{Kneeling and catching hold of her hand.) 



354 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Or. Oft', fiend ! let snakes and vipers cling 

to me, 
So thou dost keep aloof. 

Rud. (rising indigmmtly.) And is my love 

with so much hatred met? 
Madam, beware lest scorn like this should 

change me 
Ev'n to the baleful thing your fears have 

fancied . 
Or. Dar'st thou to threaten me ? 
Rud. He, who is mad with love and galFd 

with scorn, 
Dares any thing. — But O ! forgive such 

words 
From one who rather, humbled at your feet. 
Would of that gentleness, thatgen'rous pity, 
The native inmate of each female breast. 
Receive the grace on which his life depends. 
There was a time when thou did'st look on 

me 
With other eyes. 

Or. Thou dost amaze me much. 
Whilst I believed thou wert an honest man. 
Being no fool, and an adventurous soldier, 
1 look'd upon thee with good-will ; if more 
Thou did'st discover in my looks than this. 
Thy wisdom with thine honesty, in truth 
Was fairly match'd. 
Rud. Madam, the proud derision of that 

smile 
Deceives me not. It is the Lord of Falken- 

stein, 
Who, better skill'd than I in tournay-war, 
Tho' not i' th' actual field more valiant found, 
Engrosses now your partial thoughts. And 

yet 

What may he boast which in a lover's suit, 
I may not urge .-' He's brave, and so am I. 
In birth 1 am his equal ; for my mother, 
As 1 shall prove, was married to Count Al- 
bert, 
My noble father, tho' for reasons tedious 
Here to be stated, still their secret nuptials 
Were unacknowledged, and on me hath 

fallen 
A cruel stigma which degrades my fortunes. 
But were I — O forgive th' aspiring thought ! — 
But were I Orra's Lord ; 1 should break forth 
Like the unclouded sun, by all acknowledged 
As ranking with the highest in the land. 

Or. Do what tliou wilt when, thou art Or- 
ra's Lord ; 
But being as thou art, retire and leave me : 
I choose to be alone. (Very proudly.) 

Rud. Then be it so. 
Thy pleasure, mighty Dame, I will not balk. 
This night, to-morrow's night, and every 

night, 
Shalt thou in solitude be left ; if absence 
Of human" beings can secure it for thee. 
(Pauses and looks on her, while she seems 

struck and disturbed.) 
It wears already on the midnight hour ; 
Goodj|_night ! (Pauses again, she still more 

distvrhcd.) 
Perhaps I understood too hastily 
Commandsjiyou may retract. 



Or. (recovering her state.) Leave me, I say ; 
that part of my commands 
I never can retract. 
Rud. You are obeyed. [Exit. 

(Or. pads up and doicn hastily for some 
time, then stops short, and after re- 
maining a little ichile in a thoughtful 
posture.) Can spirit from the tomb, 
or fiend- from hell. 
More hateful, more malignant be than man — 
Than villainous man .'' Altho' to look on 

such, 
Yea, even the very thought of looking on 

them. 
Makes natural blood to curdle in the veins 
And loosen'd limbs to shake. 
There are who have endured the visitation 
Of supernatural Beings. — O forfend it ! 
I would close couch me to my deadliest foe, 
Rather than for a moment bear alone 
Tile horrors of the sight. 
Who's there .'' Who's there.' (looking round.) 
Heard I not voices near .' That door ajar 
Sends fortli a cheerful light. Perhaps, Cath- 

rina, 
Who now prepares my chamber. Grant 
it be ! [Exit, running hastily to a 
door from which a light is seen. 

Scene IIL — a chamber, with a small 
bed or couch in it. 

Enter Rudigere and Cathrina, wrangling 
together. 

Rud. I say begone, and occupy the cham- 
ber 

I have appointed for thee : here I'm fix'd 

To pass tlie night. 

C'afA. Did'st thou not say my chamber 

Should be adjoining that which Orra holds ? 

I know thy wicked thoughts : they meditate 

Some dev'lish scheme : but think not I'll 
abet it. 
Rud. Tliou wilt not! — angry, restive, sim- 
ple fool ! 

Dost thou stop short, and say " I'll go no 
further .'' " 

Thou, whom concealed shame hath bound so 
fast, — 

My tool, — my instrument.' — Fulfil thy charge 

To the full bent of thy commission, else 

Thee, and thy bantling too, I'll from me cast 

To want and infamy. 

Cath. O shameless man ! 

Thou art the son of a degraded mother 

As low as I am, yet thou hast no pity. 

Rud. Aye, and dost thou reproach my bas- 
tardy 

To make more base the man who conquer'd 
thee. 

With all thy virtue, rigid and demure ? 

Who would have tliought less than a sov'- 
reign Prince 

Could e'er have compass'd such achieve- 
ment.' Mean 

As he may be, thou'st given thyself a master. 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY 



356 



And must obey him. — Dost thou yet resist ? 
Thou know'st my meaning. {Tearing ofcn 
his vest in vehemence of action.) 
Cath. Under thy vest a dagger! — Ah too 
well, 
I know thy meaning, cruel, ruthless man ! 
Rud. Have I discover'd it .? — I thought not 
of it: 
The vehemence of gesture hath betray'd me. 
I keep it not for thee, but for myself; 
A refuge from disgrace. Here is another 
He who with high but dangerous fortune 

grapples, 
Should he be foil'd, looks but to friends like 
these. {Pulling out tico daggers 
from his vest.) 
This steel is strong to give a vig"rous thrust ; 
The other on its venom'd point hath that 
Which, in the feeblest hand, gives death as 

certain, 
As tho' a giant smote the destin'd prey. 
Cath. Thou desp'rate man ! so arm'd 

against thyself! 
Rud. Aye ; and against myself with such 
resolves, 
Consider well how I shall deal with those 
Who may withstand my will or mar my pur- 
pose. 

Think'st thou I'll feebly 

Cath. O be pacified. 
1 will be gone : I am a humbled wretch 
On whom thou tramplest with a tyrant's cru= 
elty. [Exit. 

Rud. (looks after her icith a malignant laugh, 
and then goes to the door of an ad- 
joining chamher, to the lock of which 
he applies his ear.) All still within. — 
I'm tired and heavy grown ; 
III lay me down to rest. She is secure : 
No one can pass me here to gain her cham- 
ber. 
If she hold parley now with any thing. 
It must in truth be ghost or sprite. — Heigh 

ho! 
I'm tired, and will to bed. 
{Lays himself on the couch and falls asleep. 
The cry of hounds is then heard without at 
a distance, icith the sound of a horn ; and 
presently Orra enters, lur sting from the door 
of the adjoining chamher, in great alarm.) 
Or. Cathrina ! sleepest thou .'' Awake ! 
Awake ! {Running up to the couch 
and starting hack on seehig Kndiigexe .) 
That hateful viper here ! 
Is this my nightly guard .' Detested wretch ! 
1 will steal back again. 

{Walks softly on tijHoe to the door of her cham- 
her, when the cry of houiuls, ^-c. is again 
heard without, nearer than before.) 
O no ! I dare not. 

Tho' sleeping, and most hateful when awake, 
Still he is natural life and may be 'waked. 

{listening again.) 

'Tis nearer now : that dismal thrilling blast ! 

I must awake him. {Approaching 

the couch and shrinking hack again.) 

O no ! no no ! 



Upon his face he wears a' horrid smile 

That speaks bad thoughts. 

(Rud. speaks in his sleep.) 

He mutters too my name. — 

1 dare not do it. {Listening again.) 

The dreadful sound is now upon the wind. 

Sullen and low, as if it wound its way 

Into the cavern'd earth that swallow'd it. 

I v/ill abide in patient silence here ; 

Tho' hateful and asleep, I feel me still 

Near something of my kind. 

{Crosses her arms, and leans in a cowering 
jjosture over the hack of a chair at a dis- 
tance from the couch ; when presently the 
horn is heard tvithout, louder than before, 
and she starts up.) 

it returns ! as tho' the yawning earth 
Had given it vip again, near to the walls. 
The horribly mingled din ! 'tis nearer still : 
'Tis close at hand : 'tis at the very gate ! 

{running up to the couch.) 
Were he a murd'rer, clenching in his hands 
The bloodjr knife, I must awake him. — No ! 
That face of dark and subtile wickedness ! 

1 dare not do it. {listiiig again.) Aye ; 'tis 

at the gate — 
Within the gate. — 
What rushing blast is that 
Shaking the doors ? Some awful visitation 
Dread entrance makes ! O mighty God of 

heaven ! 
A sound ascends the stairs 
Ho, Rudigere ! 

Awake, awake ! Ho! Wake thee, Rudigere ! 
Rud. {leaking.) What cry is that so terribly 
strong t — Ha, Orra ! 
What is the matter .' 

Or. It is within the walls. Did'st thou 

not hear it .' 
Rud. What? The loud voice that call'd 

me .'' 
Or. No, it was mine. 
Rud. It sounded in my ears 
With more than human strength. 

Or. Did it so sound ? 
There is around us, in this midnight air, 
A power surpassing nature. List, I pray : 
Altlio' more distant now, dost thou not hear 
The yell of hounds ; the spectre-huntsman's 
horn .' 
Rud. I hear, indeed, a strangely mingled 
sound : 
The wind is howling round the battlements. 
But rest secure where safety is, sweet Orra I 
Within these arms, nor man nor fiend shall 

harm thee. 
{Jlpproaching her with a softened winning 
voice, while she pushes him off with abhor- 
rence.) 

Or. Vile reptile ! touch me not. 
Rud. Ah Orra ! thou art warp'd by preju- 
dice. 
And taught to think me base ; but in my 

veins 
Lives noble blood, which I will justify. 
Or. But in thy heart, false traitor ! what 
lives there .' 



356 



ORKA : A TRAGEDY. 



Rud. Alas^! thy angel-faultlessness con- 
ceives not 
The strong temptations of a soul impassion'd 

Beyond controul of reason. Al thy feet — 

(Jcnceling.) 
O spurn me not. 

(Enter several Servants, alarmed.) 

Rud. What, all these fools upon us ! Staring 
knaves, 
What brings ye hero at this untimely hour .-' 
1st Scrv. We have all heard it — 'twas the 
yell of hounds 
And clatt'ring steeds, and the shrill horn be- 
tween. 
Rud. Out on such folly ! 
2d Scrv. In very truth it pass'd close to the 
walls ; 
Did not your Honour hear it ? 

Rud. Ha ! say'st thou so .' thou art not 
wont to join 
In idle tales. — I'll to the battlements 
And watch it there : it may return ao-ain, 
[Exeunt severally, ' Rudigere followed hy 
Servants, and Orra into her oioti cliamhcr. 

Scene IV. — the outlaws' cave. 

^'.. sj Enter Theobald. 

Theo. (looking round.) Here is a place in 

which some traces are 
Of late inhabitants. In yonder nook 
The embers faintly gleam, and on the walls 
Hang spears and ancient arms : I must be 

right. 
A figure thro' the gloom moves towards mc. 
Ho there ! Whoe'er you are : Holla, good 

friend ! 

' Enter an Outlaw. 

Out. A stranger ! Who art thou, who art 
thus bold. 
To hail us here unbidden ? 

Theo. That thou shalt shortly know. Thou 
art, I guess. 
One of the Outlaws, who this forest haunt. 
Out. Be thy conjecture right or wrong, no 
more 
Shalt thou return to tell where thou hast 

found us. 
Now for thy life ! (Drmcing his sword.) 

Theo. Hear me, I do entreat thee. 
Out. Nay, nay! no foolish pleadings; for 
thy life 
Is forfeit now ; have at theo ! 
(Falls fiercely upon Theobald, who also draws 
and defends himself bravely, when another 
Outlaw enters and falls liheicise upon him. 
Theo. then recedes , fighting till he gels his 
back to the wall of the cavern, and there de- 
fends himself stoutly.) 

Enter Franko. 

Frank, Desist, I charge you ! Fighting 

with a stranger. 
Two sworda to one — a soliarj' stranger ' 



\st Out. We are discover'd : had he master'd 

me. 
He had return'd to tell his mates above 
What neighbours in these nether caves they 

have. 
Let us dispatcli him. 

Frank. No, thou hateful butcher! 
Dispatcli a man alone and in our power ! 
Who art thou, stranger, who dost use thy 

sword 
With no mean skill; and in this perilous 

case ' 

So bold an air and countenance maintainestp 
What brought thee hither .' 

Theo. My name is Theobald of Falken- 
stein ; 
To find the valiant captain of these bands, 
And crave assistance of his gen'rous arm: 
This is my business here. 

Frank (struck and amtated. To his men.) ' 
Go join your comrades m the further cave. 

[Exeunt Outlaws. 
And thou art Falkenstein .' In truth thou 

art. 
And who think'st thou am I ? 

Theo. Franko, the gen'rous leader of those 

Outlaws. 
Frank. So am I call'd, and by that name 
alone 
They know me. Sporting on the mountain's 

side, 
Where Garva"s Vv'ood waves green, in other 

days. 
Some fifteen years ago, they called me Al- 
bert. 
Theo. (rushing into his arms.) Albert ; my 
play-mate Albert ! Woe the day ! 
What cruel fortune drove thee to this state ^ 
Frank. I'll tell thee all ; but tell thou first 
to me 
What is the aid thou earnest here to ask. 
Theo. Aye, thou wert ever thus : still for- 
ward bent 
To serve, not to be serv'd. 
But wave we this. 

Last night a Lady to the castle came, 
In thraldom by a villain kept, whom 1 
Would give my life to rescue. Of arm'd 

force 
Being at present destitute, I crave 
Assistance of vour counsel and your arms. 
Frank. When did'st thou learn that Out- 
lavv's harbour here. 
For 'tis but lately we have held these haunts .' 
Theo. Not till within the precincts of the 
forest. 
Following the traces of that villain's course, 
One of your band I mot, and recogniz'd 
As an old soldier, who, some few years back. 
Had under my command right bravely served. 
Seeing liimself discover'd, and encouraged 
By what I told liiin of my story, freely 
He ofter'd to conduct me to his captain. 
But in a tangled path some space beibre me, 
Alarm'd at sight of spearmen thro' the brake. 
He started from his way, and so I missed 
him. 



ORRA; A TRAGEDY- 



357 



Making, to gain your cave, my way alone. 
Frank. Thou'rt welcome here : and gladly 
I'll assist thee, 
Tho' not by arms, the force within the castle 
So far out-numb'ring mine. But other means 
May serve thy purpose better. 

Thco. What other means, I pray ? 
Frank. From these low caves, a passage 
underground 
Leads to the castle — to the very tower 
Where, as I guess, the Lady is confined ; 
When sleep has still'd the house, we'll make 
our way. 
Thco. Aye, by my faith it is a noble plan ! 
Guarded or not we well may overcome 
The few that may compose her midnight 
guard, 

Frank. We shall not shrink from that. 

But by my fay ! 

To-morrow is St. Michael's Eve : 'twere well 
To be tiie spectre-huntsman for a night, 
And bear her off, without pursuit or hind- 
rance. 
Tlieo. I comprehend thee not. 
Frank. Thou shalt ere long. 
But stand not liere ; an inner room I have 
Where thou shalt rest and some refreshment 

take. 
And then we will more fully talk of this, 
Which, slightly mention'd, seems chimer- 
ical. 
Follow me. (Turning to him as they go out.) 
Hast thou still upon thine arm 
That mark which from mine arrow thou re- 

ceiv'dst 
When sportively we shot.' The wound was 

deep, 
And gall'd thee mucli, but thou mad'st light 
of it. 
Tlico. Yes, here it is. (Pulling up his 
sleeve as they go out, and Exednt.) 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — the ramparts of the cas- 
tle. 

Enter Orra and Cathrina. 

Cath. (after a pause in which Orra walks once 
or twice across the stage thoughtfully.) 
Go in, I pray ; thou wand'rest here 
too long. (Jl pause again.) 

The air is cold ; behind those further moun- 
tains 
The sun is set. I pray thee now go in. 

Or. Ha ! sets the sun already ? Is the day 
Indeed drawn to its close .'' 

Cath. Yes, night approaches. 
See, many a gather'd flock of cawing rooks 
Are to their nests returning. 

Or. (solemnly .) Night approaches I — 
This awful night which living beings shrink 

from. 
All now of every kind scour to their haunts, 



While darkness, peopled with its hosts un- 
known. 

Awful dominion holds. Mysterious night ! 

What tilings unutterable thy dark hours 

May lap 1 — What from thy teeming darkness 

burst 
Of horrid visitations, ere that sun 

Again shall rise on the enlighten'd earth I 

(A pause.) 
Cath. Why dost thou gaze intently on the 
sky ? 
See'st thou aught wonderful .'' 

Or. Look there ; behold that strange gigan- 
tic form 

Which yon grim cloud assumes ; rearing 
aloft 

The semblance of a warrior's plumed head. 

While from its half-shaped arm a streamy 
dart 

Shoots angrily ? Behind him too, far stretch'd, 

Seems there not, verily, a seried line 

Of fainter misty forms .^ 
Cath. I see, indeed, 

A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed, 

Towering above tlie rest ; and that behind 

In misty faintness seen, which hath some like- 
ness 

To a long line of rocks with pine-wood 
crown "d : 

Or, if indeed the fancy so incline, 

A file of spearmen, seen thro' drifted smoke. 
Or. Nay, look how perfijct now the form be 
comes : 

Dost thou not see .' — Aye and more perfect 
still. 

O thou gigantic Lord, whose robed limbs 

Beneath tlieir stride span half the heavens ! 
art thou 

Of lifeless vapour form'd .' Art thou not ra- 
ther 

Some air-clad spirit — some portentous thing — 

Some mission'd Being ? Such a sky as 

this 

Ne'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest. 
Cath. Nay, many such I've seen; regard 
it not. 

That form, already changing, will ere long 

Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer. 

Go in, I pray. 

Or. No ; while one gleam remains 

Of the sun's blessed liglit, I will not go. 
Cath. Then let me fetch a cloak to keep 
thee warm. 

For chilly blows the breeze. 

Or. Do as thou wilt. [Exit Cath. 

Enter an Outlaw, stealing softly behind her. 

Out. (in a low voice.) Lady ! — the Lady 

Orra! 
Or. (starting.) Merciful Heaven ! Sounds 
it beneath my feet 
In earth or air.'' (He comes forward.) 

Ha, a man ! 
Welcome is aught that wears a human face» 
Did'st thou not hear a sound .' 

Out. What sound, an' please you ? 



353 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Or. A voice which call'd upon me now : it 
spoke 
In a low liollow tone, suppress'd and low, 
Unlike a human voice. 

Out. It was my own. 

Or. What would'st thou have ? 

Out. Here is a letter, Lady. 

Or. Who sent thee hither .'' 

Out. It will tell tliee all. (Gives a letter.) 
1 must be srone, your chieftain is at hand. 

" •" [E.XIT. 

Or. Comes it from Falkenstcin ? It is his 
seal. 

I may not read it here I'll to my chamber. 

[Exit hastilij, not perceiving Rudigere, loko en- 
ters bij the opposite side, before she has time to 
get off. 

Rud. A letter in her hand, and in such 
haste ! 

Some secret agent here from Falkenstein ? 

It must be so. (Hastening after her. Exit.) 

Scene II. — the ootlavfs' cave. 

Enter Theobald and Franko by opposite sides. 

Theo. How now, good Captain ; draws it 
near the time .' 
Are those the keys ? 

Frank. They are ; this doth unlock 
The entrance to the staircase, known alone 
To Gomez, ancient keeper of the castle. 
Who is my friend in secret, and deters 
The neiglib'ring peasantry with dreadful tales 
From visiting by night our wide domains. 
The other doth unlock a secret door. 
That leads us to the chamber where she sleeps. 
Theo. Thanks, gen'rous friend I thou art 
my better genius. 
Did'st thou not say, until the midnight horn 
Hath sounded thrice, we must remain con- 
cealed .' 
Frank. Even so. And now I hear my men 
without 
Telling the second watch. 
Tlieo. How looks the night .' 
Frank. As we could wish : the stars do 
faintly twinkle 
Thro' sever'd clouds, and shed but hght suffi- 
cient 
To shew each nearer object closing on you 
In dim unshapely blackness. Aught that 

moves 
Across your path, or sheep or straggling goat, 
Is now a pawing steed or grizzly bull, 
Large and terrific ; every air-mov'd bush 
Or jutting crag, some strange gigantic thing. 
Theo. Is all still in the castle ? 
Frank. There is an owl sits hooting on the 
tower, 
Thalt answer from a distant mate receives, 
Like tlic faint echo of his dismal cry ; 
While a poor houseless dog, by dreary fits, 
Sits howling at the gate. AH else is still. 
Tlieo. Each petty circumstance is in our 
favour, 
That makes the night more dismal. 



Frank. Aye, all goes well : as 1 approach'd 
the walls, 
I heard two sentinels — for now I ween. 
The boldest spearman will not watch alone — 
Together talk in the deep hollow voice 
Of those who «peak at midnight, under awe. 
Of the dead stillness round them. 

Theo. Then let us put ourselves in readi- 
ness. 
And Heaven's good favour guide us ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — a gloomy apartment. 

Enter Orra and Rudigere. 
Or. (aside.) The room is darken'd : yester- 
night a lamp 
Threw light around on roof and walls, and 

made 
Its dreary space less dismal. 

Rud. (overhearing her, and calling to a Ser- 
vant loithout.) 

Ho ! more lights here ! 

Servant enters with a light, and Exit. 

Thou art obey'd. In aught, 
But in the company of human kind. 
Thou shalt be gratified. Thy lofty mind 
For higher super-human fellowship, 
If such there be, may now prepare it's 

strength. 
Or. Thou ruthless tyrant ! They who have 

in battle 
Fought valiantly, shrink like a helpless child 
From any intercourse with things unearthly. 
Art thou a man ? And bear'st thou in thy 

breast 
The feelings of a man .'It cannot be ! 

Rud. Yes, madam ; in my breast I bear too 

keenly 
The feelings of a man — a man most wretched : 
A scorn'd, rejected man. — Make me less mis- 
erable ; 
Nay rather should I say, make me most blest ; 
And then (attempting to take her hand 

ivhile she steps back from him, draio- 

ing herself up icith an air stately and 

determined, and looking stedfastly in 

his face.) 
Thou know'st my firm determination : 
Give me thy solemn promise to be mine. 
This is the price, thou haughty, scornful maid, 
That will redeem thee from the hour of ter- 

rour ! 

This is the price 

Or. Which never shall be paid. 
(Walks from him to the further end of the 
apartment.') 
Rud. (after a pause.) Thou art dctermin'd 

then, be not so rash : 
Bethink thee well what flesh and blood can 

bear : 
The hour is near at hand. 
(She, turning round, waves him icith her hand 

to leave her.) 
Thou deign'st no answer. 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



359 



Well 3 reap the fruits of thine unconquer'd 
pride. [Exit. 

Manet Orra: 

Or. I am alone : That closing door divides 

me 
From ev'ry being owning nature's life. — 
And shall I be constrain'd to hold communion 
With that which owns it not .•" 

(Jlftci- pacing to and fro for a little loldlc.) 
O that my mind 
Could raise its thoughts in strong and steady 

fervour 
To him, the Lord of all existing tilings, 
Who lives and is where'er existence is ; 
Grasping its hold upon his skirted robe, 
Beneath whose mighty rule Angels and 

Spirits, 
Demons and nether powers, all living things, 
Hosts of the earth, with the departed dead 
In tlieir dark state of myster}', alike 
Subjected are ! — And I will strongly do it. — 
Ah I Would I could ! Some hidden powerful 

hindrance 
Doth hold me back, and mars all thought. — 
{After a pause, in ichich she stands fixed tcith 

her arms crossed on her breast.) 
Dread intercourse ! 

O, if it look on me with its dead eyes ! 
If it should move its lock'd and earthly lips. 
And utt'rance give to the grave's hollow 

sounds ! 

If it stretch forth its cold and bony grasp 

O horror, horror ! 

{Sinking loioer at every successive idea, as she 
repeats these four lust lines, till she is quite 
upon her knees on the ground.) 

that beneath these planks of senseless mat- 

ter 

1 could, until the dreadful hour is past, 
As senseless be .' 

{Striking the floor with her hands.) 

open and receive me, 

Ye happy things of still and lifeless being. 
That to the awful steps which tread upon ye 
Unconscious are ! 

Enter Cathrina behind her. 
Who's there .' Is't any thing ? 

Cath. 'Tis I, my dearest Lady ! 'tis Cath- 
rina. 
Or. {Embracing her.) How kind ! Such 
blessed kindness 1 keep thee by me ; 
I'll hold thee fast : an angel brought thee 
hither. 

1 needs must weep to think thou art so kind 
In mine extremity. — Where wert thou hid ? 

Cath. In that small closet, since the supper 

hour, 
I've been conceal'd. For searching round 

the chamber, 
I found its door, and enter'd. Fear not now : 
I will not leave thee till the break of day. 
Or. Heaven bless thee for it ! Till the break 

of day ! 
The very thought of day-break gives me life. 
ii but this night were past, 1 have good hope 



That noble Theobald will soon be heiu 
For my deliv'rance. 

Cath. Wherefore think'st thou so? 
Or. A stranger, when thou left'st me on the 
ramparts, 
Gave me a letter which I quickly open'd. 
As soon as 1, methought, had gain'd my room 
In privacy ; but close behind me came 
That Dsemon Piudigere, and snatching at it, 
Forced me to cast it to the flames, from which, 
I struggled with him still, he could not save 
^ it. 
Cath. You have net read it then. 
Or. No ; but the seal 
Was Theobald's, and 1 could swear ere long 
He will be here to free me from this thraldom. 
Cath. God grant he may ! 
Or. If but this night were past ! How goes 
the time .'' 
Has it not enter'd on the midnight watch .' 
Cath. {Pointing to a small slab at the corner 
of the stage on uliich is placed a sand 
glass.) 
That glass I've set to measure it. As soon 
As all the sand is run, you are secure ; 
The midnight watch is past. 

Or. {Running to the glass and looking at it 
. eagerly ) 
There is not much to run : O an't were 

finish'd !' 
But it so slowly runs ! 

Cath. Yes ; watching it. 

It seemeth slow. But heed it not ; the while, 
I'll tell thee some old tale, and ere I've finish'd, 
The midnight watch is gone. Sit down, I 
pray! {They sit, Otto, draicing her 
chair close to Cathrina.) 
What story shall I tell thee ? 

Or. Something, my friend, which thou thy- 
self hast known 
Touching the awful intercourse which spirits 
With mortal men have held at this dread hour. 
Did'st thou thyself e'er meet with one whose 

eyes 
Had look'd upon the specter'd dead — had seen 
Forms from another world ? 
Cath. Never but once. 
Or. (eagerly.) Once then thou didst ! O tell 

it ! Tell it me ! 
Cath. Well ; since I needs must tell it, once 
I knew 
A melancholy man, who did aver. 
That, journ'ying on a time, o'er a wild waste, 
By a iell storm o'erta'en, he was compell'd 
To pass the night in a deserted tower. 
Where a poor hind, the sole inhabitant 
Of the sad place, prepared for him a bed. 
And, as he told his tale, at dead of night, 
By the pale lamp that in his chamber burn'd. 
As it might be an arm's-length from his bed — 
Or. So close upon him .'' 
Cath. Yes. 

Or. Go on ; what saw he .'' 
Cath. An upright form, wound in a clotted 
shroud — 
Clotted and stiff, like one swaith'd up in haste 
After a bloody death. 



5o0 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



Or. Oh horrible ! 

Cath. Ht' started from his bed and gaz'd 
upon it. 

Or. Ami did lie speak to it .' 

Cath. He could not speak. 
It's visage was uiicover'd, and at first 
Seem'd fix'd and shrunk, like one in cofHn'd 

sleep : 
But, as he gaz'd, there came, he wist not how, 
Into its beamless eyes a liorrid glare. 

And turning towards him, for it did move, 

Why dost tlioii grasp me thus.'' 

Or. Go on, go on I 

Cath. Nay, Heaven forfend ! Tliy slirunk 
and sharpen'd features 
Are of tlie corse's colour, and thine eyes 
Are full of tears. How's this .^ 

Or. I know not liow. 
A horrid sympathy jarr'd on my heart, 
And forced into mine eyes these icy tears. 
A fearful kindredship there is between 
The living and the dead : an awful bond : 
Wo's me ! that we do shudder at ourselves — 

At that which we nuist be ! A dismal 

thought ! 
Where dost thou run .'' thy story is not told : 
(Seeing Cath. go toicards the sand glass.) 

Cath. {shexcing the glass.) A better story 1 
will tell tlieo now ; 
The midnight watch is past. 

Or. Ha ! let me see. 

Cath. There's not one sand to run. 

Or. But it is barely past. 

Cath. 'Tis more than past. 
For I did set it later than the hour 
To be assur'dly sure. 

Or. Then it is gone indeed : O Heaven be 
praised I 
The fearful gloom gone by ! 
(Holding lip her hands in gratitude to Heaven, 

and then looking ruujid her with cheerful ani- 
mation.) 
In truth already 

I feel as if I breath'd tiie uiorning air : 
I'm marvellously lighten'd. 

Cath. Ne'ertheless, 
Tiiou art forspent; I'll run to my apartment 
And fetch some cordial drops that will revive 
thee. 

Or. Thou need'st not go: I've ta'en thy 
drops already : 
I'm bold and buoyant grown. 

(Bounding lightly from the floor.) 

Cath. I'll soon return : 
Thou art not fearful now .'' 

Or. No ; I breathe lightly ; 
Valour within me grows most powerfully, 
Would'st tliou but stay to see it, gentle Cath- 
rine. 

Cath. I will return to see it, ere thou canst 
Tiiree times repeat the letters of thy name. 
[Exit hastily hij the concealed door.) 

Or. This burst of courage shrinks most 

shamefull3^ (Alone.) 

I'll follow her. — (Striving to openthc door.) 

'Tis fast : it will not open. 

I'll count my footsteps as I pace the floor ' 



Till she return again. 

(Puces up and doum, muttering to herself ,v'hen 

a horn is heard without, pausing and sound- 

in<r three times, each time louder than before.) 

(Orra I'uns again to the door.) 

Despair will give me strength: where is the 

door .'' 
Mine eyes are dark, I cannot find it now. 

God ! protect me in this awful pass ! 
(After a jnmse, in which she stands with her 

bodij lent in a, coiccring posture, vjith her 
hands locked together, and trembling vio- 
loitlij, she starts up and looks wildly round 
her.) 
There's nothing, yet I felt a chilly liand 
Upon my shoulder press'd. With open'd eyes 
And ears intent I'll stand. Better it is 
Thus to abide the awful visitation, 
That cower in blinded horror, strain'd in- 
tensely 
With ev'ry beating of my goaded heart. 
(Looking round her with a steady sternness , but 
shrinking againalmost immediately.) 

1 cannot do it : on this spot I'll hold me 
In awful stillness. 

(Bending her body as before ; then, after a mo- 
mentary pause, pressing both her hands upon 
her head.) 
The icy scalp of fear is on my head, — 
The life stirs in my hair : it is a sense 
That tells the ncaring of unearthly steps, 
Albeit my ringing ears no sounds distinguish. 
(Looking round, as if by irresistible impulse to 
a great door at the bottom of the stage, ichich 
bursts open, and the form of a huntsman, 
clothed in black, loitk a horn in his hand, 
enters and advances towards her. She utters 
a loud shriek, and falls senseless on the 
ground.) 

Theo. (Running up to her, and raising her 
from the ground.) 
No semblance but real agony of fear. 
Orra, oh Orra! Know'st thou not my voice.' 
Thy knight, th}' champion, the devoted Theo- 
bald ? 
Open thine eyes and look upon my face : 

( Unmasking.) 
I am no fearful waker from the grave : 
Dost thou not feel ? 'Tis the warm touch of 

Hfe. 
Look up and fear will vanish. — Words arc 

vain ! 
What a pale countenance of ghastly strength 
By horrour changed ! O idiot that I was ! 
To hazard this ! — The villain hath deceiv'd 

me I 
My letter she has ne'er received. Oh fool 1 
That I should trust to this! 

(Beatmg his head distractedly.) 

Enter Franko, by the same door. 

Frank. V'V^ hat is the matter .' What strange 
turn is this.' 

Theo. O cursed sanguine fool ! could I not 

think 

She moves— she moves I rouse thee, my gen- 
tle Orra ! 



•ORRA : A TRAGEDY, 



361 



'Tis no strange voice that calls thee : 'tis thy 
friend. 
Frank. She opens now her eyes. 
Theo. But oh that look ' 
Frank. She knows thee not, but gives a' 
stifled groan 
And sinks again in stupor. 
Make no more fruitless lamentation here, 
But bear her hence : the cool and open air 
May soon restore her. Let us, while we may, 
Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised. 
[Exeunt, Orra borne off in a state of insensi- 
bility. 



ACT V. 
Scene I. — the great hall of the 

CASTLE. 

Enter Rudigere, Cathrina, and Attendants, 
by different Uoors. 

Rud. {To Attend.) Return'd again I Is any 
thing discover'd .'' 
Or door or passage ? garment dropt in haste.'' 
Or footstep's track, or any mark of flight .'' 
1st M. No, by my faith ! tho' from its high- 
est turrets 
To its deep vaults, thfe castle we have search'd. 
Catli. 'Tis vain to trace the marks of track- 
less feet. 
If that in truth it hath convey'd her hence. 
The yawning earth has yielded tiiem a pas- 
sage. 
Or else, thro' rifted roofs the buoyant air. 
Rud. Fools ! search agaip. I'll raze the 
very walls 
From their foundations i)ut I will discover 
If door or pass there be, to us unknown. 
Ho ! ..Gomez tliere ! {Calling off the stage.) 

He keeps himself aloof. 
Nor aids the search with true and hearty will. 
1 am betray'd — Ho ! Gomez there, I say ! 
He shrinks away : go drag the villain hither. 
And let the torture wring confession from 
him. 

{j1 land knocking heard at the gate.) 
Ha ! who seeks entrance at this early hour 
In sucli a desert place .•' 

Cuth. Some hind, perhaps, 

Who brings intelligence. Heaven, grant it be ! 

Enter an armed Vassal. 

Rud. Ha ! One from Aldenberg ! What 

brings thee hither .'' 
Vas. {seizing Rud.) Thou art my prisoner. 
{To Attendants.) 
Upon your peril, 
Assist me to secure him. 

Rud. Audacious hind ! by what authority 
Speak 'st thou such bold commands.'' Produce 
thy warrant. 
Vas. 'Tis at the gate, and such as thou must 
yield to : 
Count Hughobert himself, witli armed men, 

45 



A goodly band , his pleasure to enforce . 

{Secures him.) 
Rud. What sudden freak is this .'' am I sus- 
pected 
Of aught but true and honourable faith ? 
Vas. Aye, by our holy Saints ! more than 
suspected. 
Thy creature Maurice, whom thou thought's! 

to bribe 
With things of seeming value, hath discover'd 
The cunning fraud ; on which his tender con- 
science, 
Good soul ! did o'the sudden so upbraid him, 
That to his Lord forthwith he made confes- 
sion 
Of all the plots against the Lady Orra, 
In which thy wicked arts had tempted him^ 
To take a wicked part. All is discover'd. 
Cath. {aside.) All is discover'd ! Where 

then shall I hide me ? 
(Moudto Vas.) What is discover'd.^ 
Vas. Ha ! most virtuous Lady ! 

Art thou alarmed.'' Fear not : the world well 

• knows 
How good thou art } and to the Countess 

shortly, 
Who with her Lord is near, thou wilt no 

doubt 
Give good account of all that thou hast done. 

Cath. {aside as she retires in agitation.) 
O Heaven forbid ! What holeo 'th' eartli will 
hide me ! [E.-iix. 

Enter by the opposite side, Hughobert, Elea- 
NORA, Helen, Glottenbal, Urston, Mau- 
rice, and Attendants. • 

Hugh, {speaking as he enters.) Is Jie se- 
cured .'' 
Vas. He is, my Lord ; behold ! 

{pointing to Rud.) 

Hugh, {to Rud.) Black artful traitor ! Of 

a sacred trust. 

Blindly reposed in thee, the base betrayer 

For wicked ends ; full well upon the ground 

May'st thou decline those darkly frowning 

eyes, 
And gnaw thy lip in shame. 

Rud. And rests no shame with him, whose 
easy faith 
Entrusts a man unproved ; or, having proved 

lum, 
Lets a poor hireling's unsupported testimony 
Shake the firm contidence of many years .'' 
Hugh. Here the accuser stands; confront 
him boldly, 
And spare him not. 

( Bringing forward Ma urice.) 
Maur. {to Rud.) Deny it if thou canst. Thy 
brazen front. 
All brazen as it is, denies it not. 

Rud. {to Maur.) Fool ! that of prying curi- 
osity 
And av'rice art compounded I I in trutli 
Did give to thee a counterfeited treasure 
To bribe thee to a counterfeited trust ; 
Meet recompense; Ha, ha! Maintain thy.tale 



362 



ORUA: A TRAGEDY. 



For 1 deny it not. ( With careless derision.) 

Maur. O subtile traitor! 

Dost thou so varnish it with seeming mirth ? 
Hugh. Sir Rudigere, thou dost, I must con- 
fess, 
Olit-face liini well. But call the Lady Orra ; 
If towards her thou hast thyself comported 
In honesty, slie will declare it freely. 
Bring Orra hither. ' {To Attendant.) 

1st Al. Would that we could ; last night i' 
tlie ini(hiiglit watch 
She disapponr'd ; but whether man or devil 
Hath borne her hence, in truth we cannot tell. 
Hugh. O both ! Both man and devil togeth- 
er join'd. 
(To Rud. (furiously.) Fiend, villain, murder- 
er ! Produce her instantly. 
Dead or alive, pi-oduce thy hapless charge. 
Rud. Restrain your rage, my Lord ; 1 would 
right gladly 
Obey you, were it possible : the place, 
And the mysterious means of her retreat. 
Are both to mo unknown. 

Hugh. Thou liest ! thou liest ! 
Glot. {coming forutard.) Thou liest, beast, 
villain, traitor ! think'st thou still 
To fool us thus.'' Thou shalt be forced to 

s])oak. 
{To Hugh.) Why lose we time in words 

when other means 
Will quickly work .' Straight- to those pillars 

bind Jiira, 
And let eacli sturdy varlet of your train 
Inflict correction on him. 

Maur. Aye, this alone will move him. 
Hugh. Thou say'st well : 
By Heaven it shall be done ! 

Rtid. And will Count Hughobert degrade 
in me 
The blood of Aldenberg to shame himself.-' 
Hugh. That plea avails thee not j thy spu- 
rious birth 
Gives us full warrant, as thy conduct varies, 
To reckon thee or noble or dcbas'd. 
{To At.) Straight bind the traitor to the 

place of shame. 

{Jls Lhcij arc struggling to hind Rud. he gets 

one of his hands free, and, pulling out a 

dairger from under his clothes, stabs him- 

self) _ • 

Rud. Now, take your will of mo, and drag 

my corse 

Thro' mire and dust ; your shameless fury 

now 
Can do me no disgrace. 

Urst. {advancing.) Rash, daring, thought- 
less wretch ! dost thou so close 
A wicked life in hardy desperation .'' 

Rud. Priest, spare tliy words ; 1 add not to 
my sins 
That of presumption, in pretending now 
To offer up to heaven the forced repentance 
Of some short moments for a life of crimes. 
Urst. My son, thou dost niistakc me ; let 
thy heart 
Confession make 



Glot. (interrupting Urst.) Yes, dog ! Con- 
fession make ' 
Of what tliou'st done with Orra : else I'll 

spurn thee, 
And cast thy hateful carcass to the kites. 
Hugh.) pulling back Glot. as he is going to 
spurn Rud. loith his foot, tcho is now 
fallen ti.pon the ground.) 
Nay, nay, forbear ; such outrage is unmanly. 
(Eleanora, v:ho with Alice had retired from 
the shocking sight of Rudigere, now 
comes forward to him.) 
El. Oh, Rudigere ! thou art a dying man, 
And we will speak to thee without upbraiding. 
Confess, 1 do entreat thee, ere thou goest 
To tiiy most awful change, and leave us not 
In this our horrible uncertainty. 
Is Orra here conceal'd .'' 

M. Thou hast not slain her .'' 
Confession make, andHeaven have mercy on 
thee ! 
Rud. Yes, Ladies ; with these words of gen- 
tle meekness 
My heart is changed; and that you may per- 
ceive 
How greatly changed, let Glottenbal ap- 
proach me ; 
Spent am I now, and can but faintly speak — 
Ev'n vmto him, in token of forgiveness, 
I'll tell wjint ye desire.- 

El. Thank Heaven, thou art so changed !. 
Hugh, {to Glot.) Go to him, boy. 
(Glottenbal goes to Rudigere, and stooping 
over him to hcaf what he has to sa,y, \i\iAx- 
geie, taking a small dagger from his bosom, 
strikes Glottenbal on the neck.) 
Glot. Oh, he has wounded me !— Detest- 
ed traitor"! 
Take that and that ; would thou had'st still 

a life 
For every thrust. {Killing him.) 

Hugh, (alarmed.) Ha ! Has he wounded 

thee, my son ? 
Glot. A scratch; 
Tis nothing more. He aim'd it at my throat, 
But had not strengtli to thrust. 
Hugh. Thank God, he had not! 

(Jl trumpet sounds without.) 
Hark, martial notice of some high approach ! 
(To Attendants.) Go to the gate. 

[E.xEUNT Attexidants. 

El. Who may it be ? This castle is remote 

From every route which armed leaders take. 

Enter a Servant. 

Scr. The banneret of Basle is at the gate. 
Hugh. Is he in force .' 
!Ser. Yes, thro' the trees his distant bands 
are seen 
Some hundreds strong, I guess ; tho' witli 

himself 
Two followers only come. 

. Enter Haktman attended. 

Hugh. Forgive me, banneret, if I receive 
thee 



ORRA: A TRAGEDY. 



363 



With more surprise than courtesy. How is it ? 
Com'st thou in peace ? 

Harl. To you, my Lord, I frankly will de- 
clare . 
The purpose of my coming : iiaving heard it, 
It is for you to say if I am come, 
As much I wish, in peace. 

(Jo £/.)• Countess, your presence much 
emboldens me ■ 
To tiiink it so shall be. 

Hugh, (impatiently.) Proceed, I beg. 
When burghers gentle courtesy affect, 
It chafes me more than all their sturdy boast- 
ing. 
Hart. Then with a burgher's plainness, 
Hughobert, 
I'll try my tale to tell, — nice task I fear ! 
So that it may not gall a baron's pride. 
Brave Theobald, the Lord of Falkenstein, 
Co-burglier also of our ancient city, 
Whose cause of course is ours, declares him- 
self 
The suitor of thy ward the Lady Orra ; 
And learning- that within these walls she is, 
By thine authority, in durance kept. 
In his behalf 1 come to set her free ; 
As|an oppressed Dame, such service claiming 
From every gen'rous knight. Wliat is thy 

answer .' 
Say, am I come in peace .' Wilt thou release 
her ? 
Hugh. Ah, would I could ! In faith thou 

gall'st me shrewdly 
Hart. I've been inform'd of all that now 
disturbs you. 
By one who held me waiting at the gate. 
Until the maid be found, if 'tis your pleasure, 
Cease enmity. 

Hugh. Then let it cease. A traitor has de- 
ceived me, 
And there he lies. 

{Pointing to the body of Rud.) 
Hart, (looking at the body.) 
A ghastly smile of fell malignity 
On his distorted face death has arrested. 

(lurning again to Hugli.) 
And has he died, and no confession made f 
Ail means that may discover Orra's fate 
Shut from us ? 

Hugh. Ah ! the fiend hath utter'd nothing 
That Could betray his secret. If she lives — 
El. Alas, alas ! think you he murder'd her.' 
M. Merciful Heaven forfend ! 

Enter a Soldier in liaste. 

Sold. O, I have heard a voice, a dismal 
voice ! 
Omnes. What hast thou heard i' 
EL What voice ? 
Sold. The Lady Orra's. 
El, Where ?_Lead us to the place. 
Hugh. Where did'st tliou hear it, Soldier.'' 
Sold. In a deep tangled thicket of the wood, 
Close to a ruin'd wall, o'ergrown with ivy, 
That niarkstlle ciucitJuL out-woiks of the- ms- ' 
tie. • 



Hugh. Haste ; lead the way. 
[Exeunt all eagerly, without order ,folloivi7ig 
the Soldier, Glottenbal ajid one Attendant 
excepted. 

At. You do not go, my Lord ? 
Glot. I'm sick, and strangely dizzy grows 
my head, 
And pains shoot from my wound. It is a 

scratch. 
But from a devil's fang. — There's mischief in 

it. 
Give me thine arm, and lead me to a couch ; 
I'm very faint. 
.it. This way, my Lord, there is a cham- 
ber near. 
[Exeunt Glottenbal, supported by the Attend- 
ant. 

Scene II. — the forest near the cas- 
tle; IN FRONT A ROCKY BANK CROWK- 
ED WITH A RUINED WALL o'eRGROWN 
WITH IVY, AND THE MOUTH OF A CAV- 
ERN SHADED WITH BUSHES: 

Enter Frakko, conducting Hughobert, 

Hartman, Eleanoka, Alice, and Ubs- 

ton, the Soldier following them. 

Frank, {to Hugh.) This is the entry to our 

secret haunts. 

And now, my Lord, having, inform'd you 

truly 
Of the device, well meant, but most unhappy. 
By which the Lady Orra from her prison 
By Falkenstein was ta'en; myself, my out- 
laws. 
Unhappy men that better days have seen. 
Drove to this lawless life by hard necessity, 
Are on your mercy cast. 

Hugh. Which shall not fail you, valiant 
Franko. Much 
Am I then indebted to thee : had'st thou not 
Of thine own free good Vv'ill become our guide 
As wand'ring here thou found'st us, we had 

ne'er 
The spot discover'd ; for this honest Soldier, 
A stranger to the forest, sought in vain 
To thread the tangled path. 

El. (to Frank.) She is not well thou say'st, 
and fi'om her swoon 
Imperfectly recovcr'd. 

Frank. When I left her, 

She so appear'd. — But enter not, 1 pray. 
Till I give notice. — Holla, you within ! 
Come forth and fear no ill. 

(Ji shriek heard from the cave.) 
Omnes. What dismal shriek is that f 
M. 'Tis Orra's voice. 
El. No, no ! It cannot be ! It is some wretch, 
In maniac's fetters bound. 
Hart. The horrid thought that burst into 
my mind ! 
Forbid it, righteous Heaven ! 
{Running into the cave, he is prevented by 
Theobald, who rushes out upon him.) 
Thcu. Hold, hold ! no entry here but o'er 
my corse, 



3G4 



ORRA ; A TRAGEDY. 



When ye liave master'd me. 

Hart. My Tlieobald ! 
Dost lliou not know thy friends .' 

Tkco. Ha ! tliou, my Hartman ! Art thou 

come to mo ? 
Hurt. Yes, 1 am come. What means that 
look of anguish .'' 
She is not dead ? 

Tkco. Oh, no ! it is not death ! 

Hart. Wiiat moan'st tiiou .'' Is she well ^ 

Tlieo. Her body is. 

Hart. And not lior mind r" Oh direst 

wreck of all I 

That noble mind I But 'tis some passing 

seizure, 
Some powerful movement of a transient na- 
ture ; 
It is not madness ? 

Tkco. {shrinking from him, and bursting 
into tears.) 
'Tis heaven's infliction ; let us call it so ; 
Give it no other name. [Covering his face.) 
EL (to Theo.) Nay, do not thus despair : 
when she beholds us. 
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly 

soothing. 
Be gradually restored. 
M. Let me go to her. 
Theo. . Nay, forbear, I pray thee; 

I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
Go in and lead-her fortli. 
(Theobald and Hartman go into the cavern, 
while those without wait in deep silence, 
johich is only hrokcn once w twice by a scream 
from the cavern and the sound irjf Theobald's 
voice speaking soothingly, till they rettirn, 
leading forth Orra, with her hair and dress 
disordered, and the appearance of wild dis- 
traction in her gait and countenance.) 
Or. (shrinJdii.n- back as si ic comes fi om under 
the .shade of the trees, J^-c. and dragging Theo- 
bald and Hartman back icith her.) 
Come back, come back I The fierce and fiery 
light ! 
Theo. Shrink not, dear love ! it is the light 

of day. 
Or. Have cocks crow'd yet ? 
Theo. Yes ; twice I've heard already 

Their mattin sound. Look up to the blue sky ; 
Is it not day -light there ? And these green 

boughs 
Are fresh and fragrant round thee : every 

sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 

Or. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turn, 
Rising between the gulphy dells of night. 
Like whiteu'd billows on a gloomy sea. 
Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep thro* 

the dark. 
And will-o'-tiie-wisp Iiis dancing, taper light, 
They will not come again. 

{Heading hir car to the ground.) 
Hark, hark ! Aye, hark : 
They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom down. 

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soui I they'll 
ne'er return : 



They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful 

homo 
With crackling faggots on thy midnight fire, 
Blazing like day around thee ; and thy 

friends — 
Thy living, loving friends still by thy side, 
To speak to thee and cheer thee.- — See, my 

Orra ! 
They are beside thee now ; dost thou not know 
them.'' {Pointing to Eleanora and 
Alice.) 
Or. {gazing at them tpith her hand held up 
to shade her eyes.) 
No, no ! athwart the wav'ring garish light, 
Things move and seem to be, and yet are no- 
thing. 
El. {going near her.) My gentle Orra ! hast 
thou then forgot me .-' 
Dost thou not know my voice .' 

Or. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. 
For there be those, who sit in cheerful halls 
And breathe sweet air, and speak withpleas- 

ant sounds ; 
And once I liv'd with such ; some years gone 

by; 
I wot not now how long. 

Hugh. Keen words that rend my heart ! — 
Tiiou liad'st a home, 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy pro- 
tection. 
Urst. Be more composed, my Lord, some 
faint remembrance 
Returns upon her with the well-known sound 
Of voices once familiar to her ear. 
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, 
Tliat may lost thoughts recall. 
(Alice sings an old tunc, and Orra, who listeiis 
eagerly and gazes on her while she sings, 
afterwards bursts into a zcild laugh .) 
Or. Ha, ha ! the witched air sings for thee 
bravely. 
Hoot owls thro' mantling fog fortnattin birds .-' 
It lures not me. — I know thee well enough : 
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat, 
And fleshless heads nod to thee. — Off, I say ! 
Why are ye here ?— That is the blessed sun. 

El. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus ! 
These are the voices of thy loving friends 
That speak to thee : this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine so kindly. 
{Fatting her hand upon Orrn'a, who gives a 
loud shriek and skrinksfrom her with hor- 
ror.) 
Hart. O grievous state. {Going up to her.) 

What terror seizes thee ? 
Or. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead : 
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 

{luxing her eyes fiercely on Eleanora.) 
Come not again ; I'm strong and terrible now : 
Mine eyes liave look'd upon all dreadful 

things ; 
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast 

sounds, 
I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps 
With stifi'-clench'd, terrible strength. 
{Holding her clenched hands over her head 



ORRA : A TRAGEDY. 



365 



with an air of grandeur and defiance.) 
Hugh, {heating his breast.) A murd'rer is 

a guiltless wretch to me. 
Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. 

■{Goes uj) to Orra, and fixes his eyes upon her, 
which she, after a moment, shrinks from and 
seeks to avoid, yet still, as if involuntarily, 
looks at htm again.) 

Or. Take oiF from me thy strangely-fas- 
ten'd eye : 
1 may not look upon thee, yet I must. 
{Still turning fiat II him, and still snatching a 

hasty look at him as before.) 
Unfix thy baleful glance : Art thou a snake ? 
Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that pov/erful eye doth suck me in 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me ! O sjare me, Being of strange 

power, 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. 
{Kneeling to Harlman, aiid bending her head 
submissively.) 

El. Alas, the piteous sight ! to see her 
thus ; 
The noble, g'enerous, playful, stately Orra! 
Theo. (running to Hartman, and pushing 
him aica}/ tcith indignation.) 
Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! 
Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched 

state 
The slightest shadow of a base controul ? 

{Raisi/ig Ovva. from the ground.) 
No, rise thou stately dower with rude blasts 

rent ; 
As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem 
And leafets strew'd,as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worship'd like a regal Dame 
With ev'ry studied form of mark'd devotion, 
Whilst I, in distant silence, scarcely profTer'd 
Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy ; but now. 
No liege-man to his crovv'ned mistress sworn, 
Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; 
And he who offers to thy alter'd state 
The slightest seemingof diminish'd rev'rence, 
Must in my blood {to Hartman) O par- 
don me, my friend ! 
Thou'st wrung my heart. 

Hart. Najr, do thou pardon me : I am to 
blame : 
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 
But what can now be done .' O'er such wild 

ravings 
There must be some controul. 

Theo. O none ! none, none ! but gentle 
sympathy 
And watchfulness of love. 

My noble Orra ! 
Wander where'er. thou wilt; thy vagrant 

steps 
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary. 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

.41. See how she gazes on him with a look, 
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness, 
Half saying that she knows him. 



El. There is a kindness in her changing 
eye. 
Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobald, 
Thy knight and champion, whom thougazest 
on. 
Or. The lirave are like the brave ; so shpuld 
it be. 
He was a goodly man — a noble knight. 
{To Theobald.) What is thy name, young 

soldier.' — Woe is me ! 
For prayers cf grace are said o'er dying men. 
Yet they have laid thy clay in unblcst earth — 
Shame ! shame ! not with the stilFd and holy 

dead. 
This shall be rectified ; I'll find it out; 
And masses shall be said for thy repose ; 
Thou shalt not troop with these.. 

El 'Tis not the dead, 'tis Theobald him- 
self • 
Alive and well, who standeth by thy side. 

Or. {looking wildly round.) 
Where, where ? All dreadful things are near 

me, round me. 
Beneath my feet and in the loaded air. 
Let him be gone I The place is horrible ! 

Baneful to flesh and blood. The dreadful 

• blast ! 
Their hounds now yell below i' the centre 

gulph ; 
They may not rise again till solemn bells 
Have given the stroke that severs night from 
morn. 
El.O rave not thus! Dost thou not know 

us, Orra .' 
Or. {hastily.) Aye, well enough I know ye. 
Urst. Ha l" think ye that' she does .' 
El. It is a terrible smile of recognition. 
If such it be. 

Hart. Nay, do not thus your restless eye- 
balls move. 
But look upon us steadily , sweet Orra. 

Or. Away ! your faces waver to and fro ; 
I'll know you better in your winding-sheets, 
When the moon shines upon ye. 

Theo. Give o'er, my Friends ; you see it is 
in vain ; 
Her mind within itself holds a dark world 
Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms ! 
Contend with her no more. 

Enter an Attendant, in an abrupt disturbed 
manner. 

.4j. {to Eleanor, aside.) 
Lady 1 bring to you most dismal news': 
Too grievous for my Lord, so suddenly 
And unprepar'd, to hear. 

El. {aside.) ^Vhat is it ? Speak. 
Jit- {aside to El. ) His son is dead, all swell'd 
a^id rack'd with pain; 
And on th§ dagger's point, which tlie sly 

traitor 
Still in his stiffen'd grasp retains, foul stains. 
Like those of limed poison, shew full well 
The wicked cause of his untimely death. 

Hugh, {overhearing them.) 
Wholpeaks of deatir.'' What diu'st tiiou wliis- 
per there ? 



3o6 



ORRA; A TRAGEDY. 



How is my son r What look is that thou 

woar'nt ? 

He is not dead ? Thou dost not speak ! O 

God! 
I have no son. (-Jficr a pause.) 

i am bereft ! But this I 

But only him ! — Heaven's vengeance deals 
the stroke. 
Urst. Heaven oil in mercy smites ev'n when 
the blov/ 
Severest is. 

Hugh. I had no other hope. 

Fell is tiie stroke, if mercy in it be ! 
Could this — could tiiis alone atone my crime .-' 
Urst. Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise 
, decree. 
Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes 
Than ev'n his grievous end. 

Hugh. Ho was not all a father's heart could 
wish ; 
But oh, he was rny son ! — my only son : 
My child — iho thing that from his cradle grew 
And was Ijefore me still. — Oh, oh ! Oh, oh ! 
{Beating his breast, and groaning deeply.) 
Or. {runnijig up to him.) 
Ha ! dost thou groan, old man.'' Art thou in 

trouble .'' 
Out on it ! tho' they lay him,in the mould, 
He's near thee still.— I'll tell tliee how it 



A hideous burst hath been: the damn 'd and 

jioly, 
The living and the dead, together are 
In horrid neighbourship. — 'Tis but thin va- 
pour, 
Floating around thee, makes the wav'riJig 

bound. 
Poll ! blow it off, and see th' uncurlain'd 

reach. 
See ! from all points they come ; earth casts 

them up ! 
In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in 

death ; 
And there be some half bone, half cased in 

shreds 
Of that which flesh hath been ; and there be 

some 
With wicker'd ribs, thro' which the darkness 

scowls. 
Back, back !^ — They close upon us. — Oh the 

void • . 

Of hollow unball'd sockets staring grimly, 
And lipless jaws that move and clatter round 

us 
In mockery of speech ! — Back, back, I say ! 
Back, back ! 

(Ca.tching hold of Hughobert and Theobald, 
and dragging them back with her in all the 
loild strength of frantic horror, whilst ibs 
curtain drovs.) 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
MEN. 

OsTET^voo , an Imperial General. 

Prior, of the Monastery. 

Beneliict, i 

Jerome, > Monlis. 

Paul, ) 

MoRAND, ) Officers in the service of the 

WovELREij),3 Prior. 

The Imperial Ambassador. 

Officers serving under Osterloo. 

Sexton, Monks, Soldiers, Peasants, &c. 



WOMEN. 



Leonora. 
Agnks. 



Scene, the Monastery of St. Mauriee in Swit- 
zerland ; a Castle near it. 

Time, the middle of the lith Century. 



ACT I. 

S^ENE I. A COURT WITHIN THE MO- 
NASTERY, WITH A GRATED IRON GATE 
OPENING INTO AN OUTER COURT, 
THROUGH WHICH ARE SEEN SEVERAL 
PEASANTS WAITING. 

Jerome is discovered on the front of the stage, 
walking backwards and forwards in a disturbed 
manner, then stopping and speaking to himself. 

Jer. Twice in one night the same awful 
vision repeated ! And Paul also terrified 
with a similar visitation ! This is no common 
accidental mimicry of sleep ; the shreds and 
remnaiiisof our day-thoughts, put together at 
night in some fantastic incongruous form, as 
the "drifting clouds of a broken up storm, piece 
themselves again into uncertain shapes of 
rocks and animals. No, no ! there must be 
some great and momentous meaning in this. 

Enter Benedict behind him: 
Ben. Some great and momentous meaning 
' in this ! What art thou musing upon .■' 

Jer. Be satisfied ! be satisfied ! It is not 
always fitting that the mind should lay open 
the tilings it is busy withal, though an articu- 
late sound may sometimes escape it to set 
curiosity on the rack. Whc re is brother Paul ? 
Is he still at his devotions f 

Ben. I believe so. But looic where the poor 
Peasants are waiting without : it is the hour 



when they expect our benefactions. Go, and 
speak to them : thou hast always been their 
favourite confessor, and they want consola- 
tion. 

(Beckoning the Peasants, 7cho iherev.pon ad- 
vance through the gate, while Jerome stretch- 
es out his hand to prevent them.) 
Jer. Stop there ! Come not within the 
gates ! I charge you advance no farther. {To 
Benedict angrily.) There is death and conta- 
gion in every one of them, and yet thou 
would'st admit them so near us. Dost thou 
indeed expect a miracle to be wrought in our 
behalf.'' Are we not flesh and biood.^ and 
does not the grave yawn for us as well as 
other men .'' 

{To the Peasants still more vehemently.) 
Turn, I charge you, and retire without the 
gate. 

\st Peas. Oh! be not so stern with us, 
good Father ! There are ten new corpses in 
the village since yesterday, and scarcely ten 
men left in it with strength enough to bury 
them. The best half of the. village are now 
under ground, who, but three weeks gone by, 
were all alive and well. O do not chide us 
awa}' ! 

2il Peas. God knows if any of us shall ever 
enter these gates again; and it revives us to 
come once a day to receive your blessino-s, 
good Fathers. 

Jer.- Well, and you shall have our blessing, 
my Children ; but come not so near us ; we 
are mortal men like yourselves, and there is 
contagion about you. 

ist Peas. Ah ! no, no ! Saint Maurice will 
take care of his own; there is no fear of you. 
Fathers. 

./cr. 1 hope he will ; but it is presumptuous 
to tempt danger. Retire, I beseech you, and 
you shall have relief given to you without the 
gates. If you liave any love for us, retire. 

{The Peasants retire.) 
Ben. Well, I feel a strong faith within me, 
that our Saint, or some other good spirit, will 
take care of us. How is it that thou art so 
alarmed and so vehement with those good 
people ? It is not thy usual temper. 

Jer. Be satisfied, I pray thee : I cannot tell 
thee now. Leave me to myself a little while. 
-^ Would to God brother Paul were come to 
me ! Ha ! here he is. 

Enter Paul ; and Jerome, after waiting impa- 
tiently till Benedict retires, advances to him 
eagerly. 

Was it to a spot near the black monument in 

the stranger's burying vault, that it pointed ? 

Paul. Yes, to the very spot described by 

thee yesterday morning, when thou first 



368 



THE DREAM r A TRAGEDY 



told'st me thy dream : and, indeed, every 
circumstance of my last night's vision strongly 
resembled thine; or rather, I should say, was 
the same. The fixed frown of it's ghastly 
"ace ; 

Jer. Aye, and the majestic motion of its 
limbs. Did it not wear a mantle over its right 
slioulder, as if for concealment rather than 
grace .' 

Paul. I know not ; I did not mark that ; 
but it strode before me a.s distinctly as ever 
mortal man did before my waking sight ; and 
yet as no mortal man ever did before the wak- 
ing sight. 

Jer. But it appeared to thee only once. 

Paul. Only once ; for I waked under such 
a deep horror, that 1 durst not go to sleep 
again. 

Jcr. When it first appeared to me, as I told 
thee, the night before last, the form, though 
distinctly, was but faintly imaged forth ; and 
methought it rose more powerfully to my im- 
agination as 1 told it to thee, than in the dream 
itself. But last night, when it returned, it 
was far more vivid than before. I waked in- 
deed as thou did'st, impressed with a deep 
horror, yet irresistible sleep seized upon me 
again ; and O how it apjieared to me the third 
time, like a palpable, horrid reality ! 

(After a pause.) 
What is to be done ^ 

Paid. What can be dene ? We can stop no 
division of the Imperial army till one sliall 
really march by this pass. 

Jcr. And this is not likely ; for I received 
a letter from a friend two days ago, by an ex- 
press messenger, who says, he had delayed 
sending it, hoping to have it conveyed to me 
by one of Count Ostcrloo's soldiers, who. 
with his division, should have marched 
through our pass, but was now, he believed, 
to conduct them by a different route. 

Paid. What noise and commotion is that 
near the gate .' {Callivfr to those without.) 

Ho there 1 What is the matter ? 

\st Peas, (icithout.) Nothing, Father; but 
we hear a trumpet at a distance, and they say, 
there is an army marching amongst tlie moun- 
tains. 

Jcr. By all our holy saints, if it be so — 

(Calling again to the 1st Peas.)' 
Arc ye sure it is trumpets you hear ? 

1st Peas. As sure as we ever heard any 
sound, and here is a lad too, who saw from 
tho top most crag, with his own eyes, their 
banners waving at a distance. 

Jcr. (io Paul.) Wliatthink'st thou of it.' 

Paul. We must go to the Prior, and reveal 
the whole to him directly. Our own lives 
and those of the whole brotherliood depend 
upon it ; there can be no hesitation now. 

Jcr. Come, then ; lose no time. W^o have a 
solemn duty imposed upon us. [Exeunt. 

Scene'', JI. — an open space by the 

GATE OF THE MONASTERY, WITH A 



VIEW OF THE BUILDING ON ONE SIDE, 
WHILE ROCKS AND MOUNtAINS, WILD- 
LY GRAND, APPEAR IN EVERY OTHER 
.DIRECTION, AND A NARROW PASS 
THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS OPENING 
TO THE BOTTOM OF THE STAGE. 

Several Peasants, both Men and Women, are 
. discovered, waiting as if to see some sight ; a 

■ Trumpet and warlike Music heard at a little 
distance. 

1st Peas. Hear how it echoes amongst the 
rocks : it is your true warlike sound, that 
makes a man's heart stir within him, and his 
feet beat the ground to its measure. 

2d Peas. Ah ! what have our hearts to do 
with it now, miserable as we are ! 

1st Peas. What have we to do with it ! 
Speak for thyself. Were I to be laid in the . 
grave this very night, it would rouse me to 
hear those sovinds which remind me of the 
battle of Laupen. 

2d Peas. Well ; look not so proudly at me : 
though I have not yet fought tor my country, 
I am of a good stock nevertheless : my father 
lost his life at Morgarten. 
(Calling up to Morand, icho noic appears 

scrambling down the. .fides of the rocks.) 
Are they near us. Lieutenant.'' 

Mor. They'll be here in a trice. I know 
their Ensigns already ; they are those brave 
fellows under the command of Count Ost'er- 
loo, who did such good service to the Emperor 
in his last battle. 

3d Peas. (IVoman.) Aye; they be goodly 
nien no doubt, and bravely accoutred I war- 
rant ye. 

4iA Peas. (Old Woman.) Aye, there be ma- 
ny a brave man amongst them I trow, return- 
ing to his mother again. My Hubert never 
returned. 

2d Peas, (to Mor.) Count Osterloo ! Who 
is he ? 

Mor. Did"st thou never hear of him.' He 
has been in as many battles .as thou hast been 
in harvest fields. 

2d Peas. And won them too.' 

Mor. Nay, some of them he has won, nnd 
some he has lost ; but whether l-.is own side 
were fighting or flying, lie always kept his 
ground, or retreated like a man. The enemy 
never saw his back. 

1st Peas. True, Lieuten;tnt; I once knew 
an old soldier of Osterloob who boasted much 
of his General : for hid ir^dn are proud of him, 
and would go through flood and flame for his 
sake. 

Mor. Yes, he is affr.ble and indulgent to 
them, although passionate and unreasonable 
when provoked ; and has been known to pun- 
ish even his greatest favourites severely for a 
sli'orht offence. 1 remember well, the officer I 
fin-^t served under, being a man of this kidney, 
and 

1st Peas. Hist, hist ! the gates are thrown 



THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 



369 



open, and yonder come the Monks in proces- 
sion with the Prior at their head. 

Enter Prior and Monks from the Monastery, 
and range themselves on one side of the stage. 

Prior, (to the Peasants.) Retire, my Chil- 
dren, and don't come so near us. Don't stand 
near the soldiers as they pass neither, but go 
to your houses. 

1st Woman. O bless St. Maurice and your 
holy reverence ! We see nothing now, but 
coffins and burial.^-., and lioar notliing l)ut the 
ticking of the deatla-watch, and the tolling of 
bells : do let us stand here and look at the 
brave sight. Lord knows if any of us may 
be above ground to see such anoUier, a'n it 
were to pass this way but a week hence. 

Prior. JBe it so then, Daughter, but keep at 
a distance on the rocks, where you may see 
every tiling without communicating infection. 
(Tlie Peasants retire, climbing amongst the 

rochs : then enter by the narrow pass at the 

bottom of the stage, Soldiers marching to \ 

martial music, icith Officers and Osterloo.) 
Prior, {advancing, and lifting up his hands 

with solemnity.) 

Soldiers and Officers, and the noble chief 
commanding tins band ! in the name of our 
patron St. Maurice, once like yourselves a 
valiant soldier upon earth, now a holy, povv- 
■erful saint in heaven, I conjure you to halt. 

\st Off. {in the foremost rank.) Say you 
so, reverend Prior, to men pressing for- 
ward as we do, to shelter our head tor the 
night, and that cold wintry sun going down 
so fast upon us .'' 

1st i^aUl. By my faith ! if we pass the night 
here amongst the mountains, it will take some- 
thing besides prayers and benedictions to keep 
us alive. 

2d Sold. Spend the night here amonst cha- 
mois and eagles ! Some miracle no doubt will 
be wrought i"or our accommodation. 

J.9f Off. Murmur not, my Friends : here 
comes your General, who is always careful of 
you. 

Ogt. {advancing from the rear.) 
"What is the matter ? 

Prior, {to Ost.) You are the commander in 
chief.'' 

Ost. Yes, reverend Father: and, with all 
respect and deference, let me say, the night 
advnnces fast upon us, Martigny is still at a 
ffood distance, and we must not be detained. 
With many thanks, then, for your intended 
civilities, we beg your prayers, holy Prior, 
with tliose of your pious Monks, and crave 
leave to pass on our way. 

Prior, (lifting his hands as before.) If 
there be any piety in brave men, I con- 
jure you in the name of St. Maurice to halt! 
The lives of our whole community depend 
upon it: men, who for your lives have offered 
to heaven many prayers. 

Ost. How may this be, my Lord ? Who will 
attack your sacred walls, tliatyou sliou,ld wajit 
any defence .' 

4G 



Prior. We want not, General, the service 
of your arms : my own troops, with the brave 
Captain who commands them, are sufficient 
to defend us from mortal foes. 

Soldiers, (murmuring.) Must we fight with 
devils then .' 

Ost. Be quiet, my good Comrades. (To 
Prior.) W^ell, my Lord, proceed. 

Prior. A fatal pestilence rages in this neigh- 
bourhood ; and by command of a vision, which 
has appeared three times to the Senior of our 
order, and also to another of our brotherhood, 
threatening in case of disobedience, that the 
whole community shall fall victims to the 
dreadful disease, we are compelled to conjure 
you to halt. 

Ost. And for what purpose .' 

Prior. That we may choose by hat from 
the first division of the Imperial army which 
marches tiirough this pass, (so did the vision 
precisely direct us.j a man, who shall spend 
one night within the walls of our monastery ; 
there to undergo certain penances for the ex- 
piation of long-concealed guilt. 

Ost. This is very strange. By lot did yoa 
say ? It will be tedious. There are a hundred 
of my men who will volunteer the service — 
What say ye. Soldiers ? 

1st Sold. Willingly, General, if you desire 
it. Yet I marvel what greater virtue there 
can be in beleagring the war-worn hide of a 
poor soldier, than the fat sides of a well-fed 
monk. 

Ost. Wilt thou do it, then ? 

1st Sold. Aye; and more than that, will- 
ingly, for my General. It is not the first time 
a cat-o'-nine-tai!s has been across my back for 
other men's misdeeds. Promise me a good 
tiask of brandy when Tm done with it, and 1 
warrant ye I'll never winch. As to the say- 
ing of Pater-nosters, if there be any tiling of 
that kind tacked to it, 1 let you to wit my 
dexterity is but small. 

O-U. Then be it as tlibu wilt, my good 
friend; yet I had as lief my own skin should 
smart for it as thine, thou art such a valiant 
fellow. 

Prior. No, noble General, this must not be; 
we must iiave our man chosen by lot. The 
lives of the whole community depending up- 
on it; we must strictly obey the vision. 

Ost. It will detain us long. 

Prior. Nay, my Lord; tlie lots are already 
pre])ared. In the first place, six men only 
shall draw ; four representing the soldiers, and 
two the officers. If tlie soldiers are taken, 
the}? shall draw by companies, and the com- 
pany that is taken shall draw individually ; 
but if the lot falls to the officers, each of them 
shall draw for himself. 

Ost. Let it be so ; you have arranged it 
well. Produce the lots. 
(The Prior giving the sign, a Monk advances. 

bearing a stand, on which arc placed three 

vases, and sets it near the front of the stage.) 

Prior. Now, brave SoWLers, let four from 
youf body advaJice. 



370 



THE DREAM i A TRAGEDY . 



(Ost. points to four men, icho advance from the 

ranks.) 

Ost. And two from the officers, my Lord ? 

Prior. Even so, noble Count. 
(Ost. then points to two Officers, toko, tcith 

the four Soldiers, draio lots from the small- 
est vase directed bij the Prior.) 

1st Sold, {speaking to his comrades as the 
others are drawing.) This is strange mum- 
mery i' faith ! but it would have been no joke, 
I suppose, to have offended St. Maurice. 

Prior, (after examining the hts.) Soldiers, 
ye are free ; it is your Officers wiio are taken. 

1st Sold, (as before.) Ha ! the vision is 
dainty it seems ; it is not vulgar blood like 
ours, that will serve to stain the ends of his 
holy lash. 
(£ Monk having removed two of the vases, the 

Prior beckons the Officers to drato from the 

remaining one. 

Prior. Stand not on order ; let him who is 
nearest put in his hand first. 

1st Sold, (aside to the others as the Officers 
are drawing.) Now by these arms ! I would 
give a month's pay that the lot should fall on 
our prim pompous lieutenant, it would be well 
worth the money to look in at one of their 
narrow windows, and see his dignified back- 
bone winching under the hands of a good 
brawny friar. 

Ost. (aside, unrolling his lot.) 
Mighty heaven ! Is fate or chance in this .■* 

1st Off. (aside to Ost.) Have you got it, 
General.'' Change it for mine if you have. 

Ost. No no, my noble Albert ;. let us be 
honest ; but thanks to thy generous friend- 
ship ! 

Prior. Now shew the lots. (Jill the Offi- 
cers shew their lots, excepting Oslerloo, xoho 
continues gloomy and thoughtful.) Has no one 
drawn the sable scroll of election.' (To Oster- 
loo.) You are silent, my Lord ; of what col- 
or is your lot ? 

Ost. (holding out his .scroll.) Black as mid- 
night. 
(Soldiers quit their ranks and crowd round 

Osterloo, tumultaoashj.) 

1st Sold. Has it fallen upon our General; 
'tis a damned lot — an unfair lot. 

2d Sold. We will not leave him behind 
us, though a hundred St. Maurices command- 
ed it. 

3d ^old. Get within your walls again, ye 
cunning Friars. 

1st Sold. A'n we should lie i' the open air 
all night, we will not leave brave Osterloo be- 
hind us. ' 

Prior, (to Ost.) Count, you seem gloomy 
and irresolute ; have tiio goodness to silence 
these clamors. I am in truth as sorry as any 
of your soldiers can be, that the lot has fallen 
upon you. 

IsC Off. (aside to Ost.) Nay, my noble 
friend, let me fulfil this penance in vo\ir 
stead. It is not now a time for scruples : the 
soldiers will be mutinous. 

Ost. Mutinous ! Soldiers, return to your 



ranks. (Looking at them sternly as they seem 
uniriHingly to obey.) Will you brave me so 
far tliat I must repeat my command .' 

(They retire.) 
I thanlc thee, dear Albert. (To \st Off.) 
Thou shalt do something in mj' stead : but it 
sliall not be the service thou thinkest of. 
(To Prior.) Reverend FatJicr, I am indeed 
somewhat struck at being marked out by fate 
fiom so many men; but, as to how I shall 
act thereupon, no wise irresolute. (To the 
Sold.) Continue your march. The brave 
AUiert shall conduct you to Martigny ; and 
there you will remain under his command, till 
I join you again. 

1st Sold. God preserve you then, my no- 
ble General 1 and if you do not join us again 
by to-morrow evening, safe and sound, we 
will not leave one stone of that building 
standing on another. 

Many Soldiers at once. So swear we all ! 
So swear, &c. 

Osl. (asstiming a cheerful look.) 
Go to, foolish Fellows iWere you to leave mo 
in a den of lions, you could not be more ap- 
prehensive. Will watching all night by some 
holy shrine, or walking bare-foot through 
their midnight aisles, be such a hardsl/ip to 
one, who has passed so many nii'hts with you 
all on tjie cold field of battle .' Continue 
your march without delay ; else these good 
fathers will count you no better than a band 
of new raised city troops, with some jolly 
tankard-chief for your leader. A good march 
to you, my friends, with kind hostesses and 
warm fire-sides where you are going. 

1st Sold. Ah! What good will our fire- 
sides do us, when we think how our General 
is lodged. 

Ost. Farewell ! March on as quickly as 
you may ; you shall all drink my health to- 
morrow evening in a good hogshead of rhen- 
ish. 

1st Sold . (vnth others.) God grant we 
may ! (1st to Prior.) Look to it, reverend 
Prior : if our General be not with us by to- 
morrow's sunset, St. Maurice v/ill neither 
have monastery nor monks on this moun» 
tain. 

Ost. No more ! (Embracing first Officer, 
and shaking hands tcith others.) Farewell ! 
Farewell 1 

(The Soldiers, after giving him a lovd cheer 
march, off with their Officers to martial mu- 
sic, and E.XEUNT Osterloo, Prior, and Monks 
into the monastery, while thcVeasantsdisup- 
pear amongst the rocks. Ma.nknt Morand 
and Agnes, who has for some time appear- 
ed, looking over a crag.) 
Jg. Morand, Morand! 
Mor. Ha ! art thou there .' I might have 
guessed indeed, that so brave a sigiit would 
not escape thee. What made thee perch 
tliysolf like an eagle upon such a crag as 
that .' 

Jjg. Chide not, good Morand, but help 
me down, lest I pay a dearer price for my 



THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 



871 



sight than thou, with all thy grumbling, 
would'st wish. {He helps her down ) 

Mor. And now thou art going no doubt to 
tell the Lady Leonora, what a band of gallant 
fellows thou hast seen. 

.ig. Assuredly, if I can find in my heart 
to speak of any but their noble leader. — 
What is iiis name ? What meaning had 
all that drawing of lots in it .' What will the 
monka do with him ? Walk with me a little 
way towards the castle, brave Morand, and 
tell me what thi>u knowest. 

Mar. I should walk to the castle and miles 
beyond it too, ere I could answer so many 
questions, and I have duly in the monasterj', 
besides. 

Ag. Come with me a little waj', at least. 

Jiior. Ah, Witch ! thou knowest too well 
that 1 must always do what thou biddest me. 

[EXEU.NT. 

Scene III. the refectory of the 

MON.ASTEP.y, AVITH A SMALL TABLE, 
CN WHICH ARE PLACED REFRESH- 
MENTS, DISCOVERED IN ONE CORNER. 

Enter Osterluo, Prior, Benedict, Je- 
rome, and Paul, &c. 

Prior Noble Osterloo, let me welcome 
3'ou here, as one appointed by heaven to pur- 
chase our deliverance from this dreadful mal- 
ady ; and I hope the price to be paid for it 
will not be a heavy one. Yet ere we proceed 
further in this matter, be entreated, I pray, to 
take some refreshment after your long 
march. 

( Ti'ic table is placed near the front of the 
stage.) 

Ost. I thank you, my Lord; this is a gentle 
beginning to my penance; I will, then, by 
your leave. {Sitting doicnat the talle.) I have 
fasted long, and am indeed somewhat exhaust- 
ed, {''ifter taking some refreshment.) Ah ! 
My j)oor Soldiers ! Sf ou must still eiidure 
two hours' weary march, before you find 
such indulgence. Your wine is good, rev- 
erend Father. 

Prior I am glad you find it so : it is old. 

Ost. {cheerfully.) And your viands are 
good too ; and your bread is delicious. {Drink- 
ing another cup.) 

1 shall have vigor nowfor anything. Pray 

lell me something more of this wonder- 
ful vision: was it a Saint or an Angel that 
appeared to the Senior Brother ? 

Prior, {jjointing to Jerome.) 
He will answer for himself, and {pointing to 
Paul.) this man saw it also. 

Jer. It was neither Angel nor Saint, noble 
Count, but a mortal form wonderfully no- 
ble. 

Ost. And it appeared to you in the usual 
manner of a dream. 

Jer. It did ; at least I know no sensible dis- 
tinction. A wavy envelopement of darkness 
preceded it, from wliich appearances seemed 



dimly to wake into form, till all was present- 
ed before me in the full strength of reality. 

Paul. Nay, Brother, it broke upon me at 
once ; a vivid distinct apparition. 

Ost. Well, be that as it may ; what did ap- 
pear to you.? A mortal man, and very no- 
ble.' 

Jer. Yes, General. Methought I was re- 
turning from mass, through the cloisters 
that lead from the chapel, when a figure, as 
I have said, appeared to me, and beckoned 
me to follow it I did follow it; for at first I 
was neither afiaid, nor even surprised ; but 
so wonderfully it rose in stature and dignity 
as it strode before me, that, ere it reached 
the door of the stranger's burying vault, I 
was struck with unaccountable awe. 

Ost. The stranger's burying vault ! 

Prior. Does any sudden thought strike 
you. Count.'' 

Ost. No, no ! here's your health, Fath- 
ers) {drinking.) your wine is excellent. 

Prior. But that is water you have just now 
swallowed : this is the wine. 

Ost. Ha i is it ? No matter, no matter ! it 
is very good too. {Jl long pause; Osterloo 
with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground.) 

Prior. Shall not our Brother proeeed with 
his story, General ? 

Ost. Most certainly : I have been listen- 
ing for it. 

Jer. Well then, as I have said, at the door 
of the stranger's burying vault it stopped, and 
beckoned me again. It entered, and 1 fol- 
lowed it. There, through the damp moulder- 
ing tombs, it strode still before me, till it 
came to the farther extremity, as nearly as I 
could guess, two yards westward from the 
black marble monument ; and then stopping 
and turning on me its fixed and ghastly eyes, 
it stretched out its hands 

Ost. Its hands ' Did you say its hands ^ 

Jer. It stretched out one of them ; the 
other was covered with its mantle ; and in a 
voice that sounded — I know not how it sound- 
ed 

Paul. Aye, Brother; it was something 
like a voice, at least it conveyed words to the 
mind, though it was not like a voice neither. 

Jer. Be that as you please : these words 
it solemnly uttered — " Command the Broth- 
ers of this monastery, on pain of falling vic- 
tims to the pestilence now devastating the 
country, to stop on its way the first divi- 
sion of the Imperial army that shall march 
through your mountain pass ; and choose froin 
it, by lot, a man who shall abide one night 
within these walls, to make expiation for 
long concealed guilt. Let the suffering be 
such as the nature of the crime and the con- 
nection of the expiator therewith shall dictate. 
This spot of earth shall reveal — " It said no 
more, laut bent its eyes steadfastly upon me 
with a frown, which became, as it looked, 
keener than the looks of any mortal being, 
and vanished from my sight. 

Paul. Aye, that look; that last terrible 



372 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY. 



look ! it awoke me with terror, and I know 
not how it vanisliofl. 

Jcr. this lias been repeated to me three 
times ; last night twice in the course of the 
night, while brother Paul here was at the 
same time terrified witli a similar appari- 
tion. 

Prior. This, you will acknowledge, Count, 
was no common visitation, and could not but 
trouble us. 

Ost. You say well.' Yet it was but a 

dream. 

Prior. True; it was but a dream, and as 
such these pious men strove to consider it; 
wlien tlie march of your troops across our 
mountains, a thing so unlikely to happen, 
conipelled them to reveal to me, witliout loss 
of time, what liad appeared to them. 

Ost. A tall figure, you say, and of a noble 
aspect .' 

Jcr. Like that of a King, tiiough habited 
more in the garb of a foreign soldier of for- 
tune than of a state so dignified. 

(Osterloo rises from the table agitated.) 

Prior. _ Whatis the matter, General.' Will 
you not finish your repast ? 

Ost. I thank you ; 1 have had enough. 
The night grows cold ; I would rather walk 
than sit. 
( Going hastily to the bottom of the stage, and 

pacing to and fro.) 

Jcr. {aside to Paul and the Prior.) What 
think ye of this .' 

Prior, {aside to Jerome.) His countenance 
changed several times as he listened to 
you : there is something here ditferent from 
common surprise on hearing a wonderful 
thing. 

Enter a Peasant, by the bottom of the stage, 
bearing a torch. 

Peas, (cagcrhj us he enters.) We have found 
it. 

Ost. (slopping short in his walk.) What 
hast tliou found ? 

Peas. Wliat the Prior desired us to dig for. 

Ost. What is that ? 

Peas. A grave. 
(Osterloo turns from him suddenly, and paces 

up and doirn very rapidly.) 

Prior, (to Peas.) Thou hast found it .' 

Peas. Aye,pleaseyou,andin the very spot, 
near the black monument, where your rever- 
ence desired us to dig. And it is well you 
sent for my kinsman and I to do it, for there 
is not a lay-brother in the monastery strong 
cnougli to raise up tiie great stones tliat cov- 
ered it. 

Prior. In the very spot, sayest thou? 

Peas. In the very spot. 

Prior. Bear tliy torch before us, and we'll 
follow thee. 

Omiies. (eagerly, Osterloo excepted.) Let us 
go innnedialely. 

Prior, (to (Jsterloo inho stands fixed to the 
spot.) Will not Qount Osterloo go also ? 
It ie fitting that he should. 



Ost. rousing himself.) O, most assuredly , 
1 am perfectly ready to follow you. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 
Scene I. — a burying vault, ALMOsr 

TOTALLY dark; THE MONUMENTS AND 
GRAVE STONES BEING SEEN VERY DIM- 
LY BY THE LIGHT OF A SINGLE TORCH, 
STUCK BY THE SIDE OF A DEEP OPEN 
GRAVE, IN WHICH A SEXTON IS DISCOV- 
ERED, STANDING LEANING ON HIS MAT- 
TOCK, AND MORAND, ABOVE OROUND, 
TURNING UP, WITH HIS SHEATHED 
SWORD, THE LOOSE EARTH ABOUT 
THE MOUTH OF THE GRAVE. 

Mor. There is neither scull nor bone among 
this earth : the ground must have been new- 
ly broken up, when that cofiin was let down 
into it. 

Sex. So one should think ; but the earth 
here has the quality of consuming whatever 
is put into it, in a marvellous sliort time. 

Mor. Aye ; tlie flesh and more consumable 
parts of a body ; but hath it grinders in its 
jaws, like your carnivorous animal, to crash 
up bones and all .-" I have seen bones on an 
old field of battle, some liundred years after 
the action, lying whitened and hard in the 
sun. 

Sex. Weil, a'nt be new ground, I'll v;ar- 
rant ye somebody has paid money enough 
for such a good tenement as this : I could not 
wish my own father a better. 

Mor. (looking dozen.) The coffin is of an. 
uncommon size : tliere must be a leaden one 
within it, I should think. 

Sex. I doubt that : it is only a clumsy shell 
tliat has been put together in haste ; and I'll 
be hanged if he who made it ever made anoth- 
er before it. Now it would pine me with 
vexation to think I should be laid in such a 
bungled piece of workmansliip as this. 

Mor. Aye ; it is well for tliose who shall 
bury thee. Sexton, that thou wilt not be a 
looker on at thine own funeral. Put to- 
gether in haste, sayest thou ! How long may 
it be since this coffin was laid in tiie ground ? 

Sex. By my say, now, I cannot tell; tliough 
many a grave I have dug in this vault, in- 
stead of the lay-brothers, wlio are mighty apt 
to take a colic or shortness of breath, or the 
like, wlien any thing of hard labour falls to 
their share. '(Jlftcr pausing.) I la, now! 1 
have it. When I went over tiic mountain, 
some ten years ago to visit my father-in-law, 
Baldwick, the stranger who died the other 
day, after living so long as a hermit amongst 
the rocks, came here ; and it was shrewdly 
suspected he had leave from our late Prior, 
for a I'ood sum of money, to bury a body pri- 
vately in this vault 1 was a fool not to think 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY. 



373 



of it before. This, I'll be sworn for it, is the 
place. 

Pinter the Prior, Osterloo, Jerome, Fadl, 
Benedict, and other Monks, with the Peas- 
ant carrying lights before them. They enter 
by an arched door at the bottom of the stage, 
and walk on to the front, when evci-y one, but 
Osterloo, crowds eagerly to the grave, look- 
ing down into it. 
Prior. (<o Sexton.) What hast thou 'found, 

friend .' 

Sex. A coffin a'nt please you, and of a size, 

too, that niigjht almost contain a giant. 

Omncs. (Osterloo excepted.) The inscrip- 
tion — is there an inscription on it.' 

Sex. No, no ! They who put these planks 

together liad no time for inscriptions. 

Omnes. {as before.) Break it open : — break 

it open. 

(Theij crowd more eagerly about the grave, 
when, after a pause, the Se.xton is heard 
wrenching open the lid of the coffin.) 
Omnes. {as before.) What is there in it.' 

What hast thou found, Sexton .' 

Sex. An entire skeleton, and of no common 

size. 

Ost. {in a quick holloio voice.) Is it entire .' 
Sex. (after a pause.) No, the right hand is 

wanting, and there is not a loose bone in the 

coffin. (Ost. shudders arid steps back.) 

Jer. {to Prior, after a pause.) Will you not 

speak to him. Father.' His countenance is 

changed, and his whole frame seems moved 

by some sudden convulsion. 

{The Prior remains silent.) 

How is this .' You are also changed, reverend 

Father. Shall 1 speak to him .' 
Prior. Speak thou to him. 
Jer {to Osterloo.) What is the matter with 

you, General.' Has some sudden malady 

seized you.' 

Ost. {to Jerome.) Let me be alone with 

you, holy Prior; let me be alone VvfJlh you in- 
stantly. 

Jer. {pointing.) This is tlie Prior. — He 

would be alone with you. Father : he v/ould 

make his confession to 3'ou. 

Prior. I dare not hear him alone : there 

must be witnesses. Let him come with me 

to my apartment. 

Jer. {to Osterloo, as they leave the grave.) 

Let me conduct you, Count. 

(Jlftcr walking from it some paces.) 

Come on, my Lord; why do you stop short.' 
Ost. Not this way — not this way, I pray 

you. 

Jer. What is it you would avoid .' 

Ost. Turn aside, I pray you , I cannot cross 

over this. 

Jer. Is it the grave you mean .' We have 

left it behind us. 

Ost. Is it not there .' It yawns across our 

path, directly before us. 

Jer. Indeed, my Lord, it is some paces be- 
hind. 

Ost. There is delusion in my sight then ; 

lead me as thou wilt. [Exeunt. 



SCKNE n.^THE PRIVATE APARTMENT 
OF THE PRIOR. 

Enter Benedict, looking round as he enters. • 

Ben. Not yet come ; aye, penitence is not 
very swift of foot. {Speaking to himself as 
lie walks up and down.) Miserable man ! — 
brave, goodly creature : — but alas, alas ! most 
subdued; most miserable; and, I fear, most 
guilty ! 

Enter Jerome. 
Jerome here I — Dost thou know. Brother, that 
the Prior is coming here immediately to con- 
fess the penitent .' 

Jer. Yes, brother; but I am no intruder; 
for he has summoned me to attend the confes- 
sion as well as thyself. 

Ben. Methinks some other person of our 
order, unconcerned witli the dreaming part of 
this business, would have been a less suspicious 
witness. 

Jer. Suspicious 1 Am I more concerned in 
this than any-other member of our communi- 
ty .' Heaven appoints its own agents as it 
lis'teth : the stones of these walls might have 
declared its awful will as well as the dreams 
of a poor friar. 

Ben. True, brother Jerome ; could they lis- 
ten to confessions as he does, and hold reveries 
upon them afterwards. 

Jer. What dost thou mean with thy reveries 
and confessions .' Did not Paul see the terri- 
ble vision as well as I .' 

Ben. If thou hadst not revealed thy dream 
to him, he would have slept sound enough, or, 
at worst, have but flown over the pinnacles 
with his old mate the horned scrpeiit, as 
usual: and had the hermit Baldwick, never 
made his death-bed confession to thee, thou 
would'st never have had such a dream to 
reveal. 

Jer. Thinkest thou so ? Then what brought 
Osterloo and his troops so unexpectedly by 
this route .' With all thy heretical dislike to 
miraculous interposition, how wilt thou ac- 
count for this .' 

Ben. If thou hadst no secret intelligence of 
Osterioo's route, to set thy fancy a working 
on the story the hermit confessed to thee, I 
never wore cowl on my head. 

Jer. Those, indeed, who hear thee speak so 
lightly of mysterious and holy tilings, will 
scarcely believe thou ever didst. — But hush ! 
tlie Prior comes with his penitent ; let us have 
no altercation now. 

Enter Prior and Osterloo. 
Prior, {after a pause, in ichick he seems agi- 
tated.) Now, Count Osterloo, we are ready 
to hear your confession. To myself and 
these pious Monks ; men appointed by our 
holy religion to search into the crimes of the 
penitent, unburthen your heart of its terrible 
secret; and God grant you afterwards, if 
it be his righteous will, repentance and 
mercy. 



31-4 



THE DREAM; A TRAGEDY- 



Ost. {making a sign, as if unable to speah 
then uttering rapidly.) Presently, presently- 

Jcr. Don't hurry him, reverend Father; lie 
cannot speak. 

Ben. Take breath awhile, noble Osterloo, 
and speak to us when you can. 

Ost. I thank you. 

Een. He is much agitated. (To Osterloo.) 
Lean upon mo, my Lord. 

Prior, (to Benedict.) Nay, you exceed in 
this. (To Osterloo.) Recollect yourself, Gen- 
eral, and try to be more composed. You seem 
better now ; endeavour to unburden your mind 
of its fatal secret; to have it labouring within 
your breast is protracting a state of misery. 

Ost. (fcchlij.) I have voice now. 

Jer. {fo Osterloo.) Give to Heaven then, as 
you ought 

Ben. Hush, brother Jerome ! no exhorta- 
tions now ! let him speak it as he can. (To 
Osterloo.) We attend to you most anxious- 

l.v- 

Ost. {lifter struggling for utterance.) I slew 
him. 

Prior. The man whose bones have now 
been discovered.'' 

Ost. The same : I slew him. 

Jer. In the field. Count.'' 

Ost. No, no ! many a man's blood has been 
on my hands there : — tliis is on my heart. 

Prior. It is then premeditated murder you 
have committed. 

Ost. {hastily.) Call it so, call it so. 

Jcr. {to Osterloo, after apuvse.) And is this 
all .'' Will you not proceed to tell us the cir- 
cumstances attending it.' 

Ost. Oh ! they were terrible ! — But they are 
all in my mind as the indistinct horrors of a 
frenzied imagination. (-^fter a short pause.) 
I did it in a narrow pass on St. Gothard, in 
the stormy twilight of a winter day. 

Prior. You murdered him there.'' 

Ost. I felt him dead under my grasp ; but 
I looked at him no more after the last despe- 
rate thrust that I gave him. I hurried to a 
distance from the spot : when a servant, who 
was with me, seized with a sudden remorse, 
begged leave to return and remove the body, 
that, if possible, he might bury it in consecra- 
ted ground, as an atonement for the part he 

had taken in the terrible deed. 1 gave him 

leave, with means to procure his desire; — I 
waited for him three days, concealed in the 
mountains ; — but I neither saw him, nor heard 
of him airain. 

Ben. But what tempted a, brave man like 
Osterloo to commit sucli a horrible act .'' 

Ost. The torments of jealousy stung me to 
it. {Hiding his face with his hands and then 
uncovering it.) I loved her, and was belov- 
ed : He came, — a noble stranger 

Jcr. Aye, if he was in his mortal state, as I 
in my dream beheld him, he was indeed most 
noble. 

Ost. {waving his hand impatiently.) Well, 
well! he did come, then, and she loved me 
no more. With arts and enchantments 



he besotted her. Even frOna 

her own lips I received 

{Tossing up his arms violently, a.nd then cov- 
ering his face as before.) 
But what is all this to you .' Claimed as he 
was, having lost his right arm in a battle with 
the Turks, I could not defy him to the field. 
After passing two nights in 



all the tossing agon/ of a damned spirit, I fol- 
lowed him on his journey 'cros;; the moun 
tains.' — On the twilight of the second day, I 
laid wait for him in a narrow pass ; and as 
soon as his gigantic form darkened the path 
before me 1 have told you all. 

Prior, {eagerly.) Y^ou have not told his 
name. 

Ost. Did I not say Montera .'' He was a 
noble Hungarian. 

Prior, {much agitated.) Hg was so I — He 
was so. He was noble and beloved. 

Jer. (aside to Prior.) What is the matter 
with you, reverend Father ? Was he your 
Friend .' 

Prior, {aside to Jerome.) Speak not to me 
now, but question the murderer as ye will. 

Ben. {overhca.ring the Prior.) He is indeed 
a murderer, reverend Father, but he is our 
penitent. 

Prior. Go to ! v/hat are names .' — Ask him 
what questions you will, and finish the Con- 
fession quickly. 

Ben. (to Osterloo.) But have you never till 
now confessed this crime ; nor in the course 
of so many years reflected on its dreadful tur- 
pitude ? 

Ost. Tlie active and adventurous life of a 
soldier is most adverse to reflection : but often, 
in the stillness of midnight, the remembrance 
of this terrible deed has come powerfully upon 
me ; till morning returned, and the noise of 
the camp began, and the fortunes of the day 
were before mo. 

Prior, {in a severe voice.) Thou hast indeed 
been too long permitted to remain in this har- 
dened state. But Heaven, sooner or later, 
will visit the man of blood v/ith its terrours. 
Sooner or Inter, he shall feel that lie stands 
upon an awl'ul brink; and short is the step 
which engulphs him in that world, where the 
murdered and the murderer meet again, in the 
tremendous presence of him, v/ho is the Lord 
and giver of life. 

Ost. You believe then in such severe retri- 
bution ? 

Prior. I believe in it as in my own exist- 
ence. 

Ost. (turning to Jerome and (Benedict.) 
And you, good Fathers, you believe in this .' 

Ben. Nature teaches this as well as revela- 
tion : we must believe it. 

Jer. Some presumptuous minds, dazzled 
with the sunshine of prosperity, have dared to 
doubt ; but to us, in the sober shade of life ; 
visited too, as we have now been, by visions 
preternatural and awful, it is a thing of cer- 
tainty, rather than of faith. 

Ost. That such things are !— It malces the 



THE DREAM ; A TRAGEDY. 



375 



brain canfused and giddy. — These are tre- 
mendous thoughts. {Leans /iw back against 
the icull, and gazes fizedlij on the ground.) 

Prior. Let us leave him to the bitterness of 
his thoughts. We now must dchberate with 
the brethren on what is to be done. There 
must be no delay : the night advances fast. 
Conduct him to another apartment: I must 
assemble a council of the whole order. 

Jcr. {to Osterloo.) We must lead you to 
another apartment, Count, while we consider 
what is to be done. 

Ost. {roused.) Aye, tlie expiation you mean : 
let it be severe ; if atonement in this world 
ma.y be made. 

{Turning to Prior as Jerome leads him off.) 
Let your expiation be severe, holy Father : a 
slight penance matches not with such a crime 
as mine. 

Prior. Bo well assured it shall be what it 
ought. 

Ost. { Turning again and catching hold of the 
Prior's robe.) I regard not bodily pain. In 
battle once, with the head of a broken arrow 
in my thigh, I led on the charge, and sustain- 
ed all the exertions of a v.-cU-fought field, till 
night closed upon our victory. Let your pen- 
ance be severe, my reverend Father ; I have 
been long acquainted with pain. 

[Exeunt Osterloo and Jerome. 

Ben. You seem greatl_y moved, I'ather; but 
it is not with pity for the v/rttched. You 
would not destroy such a man as this, though 
his crune is the crime of blood ? 

Prior. He shall die : ere another sun dawn 
on these walls, he ehall die. 

Ben. Oh, say not so! Think of some other 
expiation. 

Prior. I would think of another, were there 
any other more dreadful to him than death. 

Ben. He is your penitent. 

Prior. He is the murderer of my brother. 

Ben. Then Heaven have mercy on him, if 
he must find none here .■' 



Montero was your brother.'' 

Prior. My only brother. It were tedious 
to tell thee now, how I was separated from 

Jiim after the happy days of our youth. 

I saw him no more ; yet he was still the dear- 
est object of my thoughts. Alter escaping 
death in many a battle, he v/as slain, as it was 
conjectured, by banditti, in travelling across 
the mountains. His body was never discov- 
ered. Ah I little did I think it was lying so 
near me ! 

Ben. It is indeed piteous ; and you must 
needs feel it as a brcther -. but consider the 
danger vre run, should v.e lay violent hands 
on an Imperial General, with his enraged sol- 
diers, within a ycw hours' march of our walls. 

Prior. I can think of nothing but revenge. 
Speak to me no more. I must assemble the 
whole order immediately. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — another apartment. 

Enter Osteri.oo as from a small recess at the 



bottom of the Stage, pacing backwards and for- 
wards several times in an agitated manner ; 
then advancing slowly to the front, where he 
stands musing and muttering to himself for 
some moments, before he speaks aloud. 

Qst. That this smothered horrour should 
burst upon me at last ! Ar.d there be really 
such things as the darkened fancy irnageth to 
itself, when the busy day is stilled. — An un- 
seen world surrounds us : spirits and powers, 
and the invisible dead hover near us ; while 
we in unconscious security — Oh ! I have slept 
upon a feaiful brink ! Every sword that threat- 
ened ni}' head in battle, had power in its edge 
to send me to a terrible account. — I have 

slept upon a fearful brink. 

Am I truly awake .' {Ihdjbing his eyes, then 
grasping several parts of his body, first with 
one hand and then loith the other.) Yes, yes ! it 
is so i — I am keenly and terribly awake. 

{Paces ra-pidhj up and doicn, and then siop- 
ing short.) Can there be virtue in penances 
suffered by the body to do away offences of the 
soul .-" If there be — O if there be I let them 
runnel my body with stripes ; and swaith me 
round in one continued girth of wounds ! Any 
thing that can be endured here, is mere}' com- 
pared to the dreadful abiding of what may be 
hereafter. 

Enter Wo velreid, behind followed by Soldiers, 
who range themselves at the bottom of the 
stage. Osterloo turning round, runs up to him 
eagerly. 

Ha ! my dear Albert, returned to me again, 

with all my noble fijllows at thy back ! 

Pardon me : I mistook you for one 

of my Captains. 

Wov. I am the Prior's Captain. 

Ost. And those men too.? 

Wov. I'hey are the Prior's Soldiers, who 
have been ordered from distant quarters to 
repair to the monastery innnediateiy. 

Ost. In such haste .'' 

Wov. Aye, in truth ! W^e received our or- 
ders after sun-set, and have marched two 
good leagues since. 

Qst. What may this mean .? 

Wov. Faith 1 know not. My duty is to 
obey the Prior, and pray to our good saint ,: 
and whether 1 am comm^anded to surprise the 
strong hold of an enemy, or protect an execu- 
tion, it is the same thing to me. 

Ost. An execution I can ought of this na- 
ture be intended ? 

Wuv. Ycu turn pale. Sir : wearing the garb 
of a soldier, you have surely seen blood ere now. 

Ost. I have seen too much blood. 

Enter Prior, Jerome, Paul, and Monks, walking 
in order j the Prior holding a paper in his hand. 

Prior, {with solemnity.) Count Osterloo, 
Lieutenant-Gcneral of our liege Lord the 
Emperor; authorized by this deed, which is 
subscribed by all the brethren of our Holy 
Order here present, I pronounce to you our 
solemn decision, that the crime of murder, 



370 



THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 



as, by the niystorlous voice of Heaven, and 
your own confession, your crime is proved to 
bo, can only be expiated by death : you arc 
tJierefore warr.ed to prepare yoursclt' to die 
this night. Belbre day-break, you must be 
with the inhabitants ofanotlier world; whei'c 
may the great Maker of us all deal with you 
in mercy ! 

(Osterloo sluggers back from the spot tohcrc 
he stood, Olid remains silent.) 
Prior. It is a sentence. Count, pronounced 
against you from necessity, to save the lives 
of our whole community, which you yourself 
have promised to submit to;. have you any 
thing to say in reply to it. 

Oat. Nothing : my thougiits are gone from 
me in the darkness of astonishment. 

Prior. We are compelled to be thus hasty 
and severe .• ere day -break, you must die. 

Ost. Ere day-break ! not even the light of 
another sun, to one so ill prepared for the aw- 
ful and tremendous fate into which you would 
thrust him I this is inhuman ! It is horrible ! 

Prior. He was as ill prepared for it, wlio, 
with still shorter warning, was thrust into 
that awful state in the narrov/ pass of St. 
Gothard. 

Ost. The guilt of murder was noton his soul. 
^!^y, nay, holy Prior 1 con- 
sider this horrible extremity : let the pain of 
the executioner's stroke be twenty fold upon^ 
me ; but thrust me not ibrth to that state from 
which my soul recoils with unutterable hor- 



Nevcr but once, to save the life of a friend, 
did I bend the knee to mortal man in humble 
supplication. lama Soldier; in many battles 
I have bled for the service of my country : 
I am a Soldier, and I was a proud one ; yet 

do I thus Contemn not my extremity I 

my knee is on the ground. 

Prior. Urge me no farther. It must not 
be ; no respite can be granted. 

Ost. (starting up furiously from the ground, 
and drawing his sword.) 

Then subdue as you may, stern Priest, the 
strength of a desperate man. 

(\Vovelreid and Soldiers rush forward, get- 
ting behind him, and surrounding him on ever y 
side, and after a violent struggic disarm him.) 

iVov. What a noble fellow this would be to 
defend a narrow breach, though he shrinks 
with such abhorrence from a scaffold. It is a 
piteous tiling to see him so beset. 

Prior, {to Wovelreid.) What sayest thou. 
Fool ! 

Wov. Nay, it is no business of mine, my 
Lord, I confess. Shall we conduct him to the 
prison chamber .' 

Prior. Do so ; and see that he retains no 
concealed arms about him. 

IVov. I obey, my Lord : every thing shall 
be made secure. 
(Exit Osterloo, guarded by Wovelreid and. 

Soldiers, and, at the same time, enter Bene- 
dict, by the opposite side, loho stands loukinc 

after him jriteou^ly.) 



Prior. (Sternly to Benedict.) What brings 
thee here ^ Dost thou repent having refused 
to concur with us in an act that preserves the 
couununity .' 

Ben. Say rather, reverend Father, an act 
that revenges your brother's death, which the 
laws of the empire should revenge. 
Prior. A supernatural visitation of Pleaven 

iiath conunanded us to punish it. 

Wiiat; dost thou shake thy head .'' Thou art 
of a doubting and dangerous spirit; and be- 
ware lest, sooner or later, the tempter do not 
lure thee into heresy. If reason cannot sub- 
due thee, authority shall. Return 

again to thy cell ; let me hear of this no more. 
Ben. I will, reverend Father. But ibr the 
love of our holy saint, bethink you, ere it be 
too late, that though we may be saved from 
the pestilence by this bloody sacrifice, what 
will rescue our throats from the swords of 
Osterloo's soldiers, when they shall letuin, as 
they have tlireatened, to demand from us their 
General ? 

Prior. Give thyself no concern about this. 
My own bands are already called in, and a 
messenger has been dispatched to the Abbess 
Matilda ; her troops, in defence of the church, 

will face the best soldiers of the empire. 

But why lose we time in unprofitable conten- 
tions.' Go, my Sons, (speaking to other IVIonks,) 
the night advances fast, and we have much to 
do ere morning. (Knocking heard icithout.) 
Ha ! who knocks at this untimely hour .' Can 
the soldiers be indeed returned upon us .' — 
Run to the gate ; but open it to none. 
[ExEiiiVT several in haste, andprcsently re-enter 
with a lay-brother. 

Lay-B. Please ye, reverend Father ; the 
Marchioness has sent a messenger from the 
castle, beseeching you to send a Confessor im- 
mediately to conttjss one of her women, who 
was taken ill yesterday, and is now at the 
point of death. 

Prior. I'm glad it is only this. — What is 
the matter with the penitent P 

Lay-B. I know not, please you ; the mes- 
senger only said, she was taken ill yesterday. 
Prior, (shaking his head.) Aye, this malady 
has got there also. — 1 cannot send one of 
the Brothers to bring infection immediately 

anion o-st us. What is to bo 

done ? Leonora is a most noble Lady ; and 
the family have been great benefactors to our 
order. — l" must send somebodj' to her. But 
he must stop well his nostrils with spicery, 
and leave his upper garment behind him, when 
he quits the infected apartment. Jerome, wilt 
thou go .' Thou art the favorite Confessor with 
all the women at the castle. 

Jcr. Nay, Father ; I must attend on our 
prisoner here, who has raost need of ghostly 
assistafice. 

Prior, (to another Monk.) Go thou Ansel- 
mo ; thou hast given comfort to many a dying 
penitent. 

Monk. I thank you, Father, for the pre- 
ference ; but Paul is the best of us all for ad- 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY, 



377 



ministering comfort to the dying ; and there 
is a sickness come over my heart, o'the sud- 
den, that malics me unfit for the office. 

Prior, (to Paul.) Thou wilt go then, my 
good Son. 

Paul. 1 beseech you, don't send me, reve- 
rend Father ; 1 ne'er escaped contagion in my 
life, where malady or fever were to be had. 

Prior. Who will go then .' 

(£ deep silence.) 

Ben. What ; has no one faith enough in the 
protection of St. Maurice, even purchased, as 
it is about to be, by the shedding of human 
blood, to venture upon this dangerous duty .'' 
I will go then, Father, tliough I am some- 
times of a doubting spirit. 

Prior. Go, and St. Maurice protect thee ! 
[Exit Ben. 
Let him go ; it is well that we get rid of him 
for the night, should they happily detain him 
so long at the castle. — He is a troublesome, 
close-searching, self-willed fellow. He hath 
no zeal for the order. Were a miser to be- 
queath his possessions to our monastery, he 
would assist the disappointed heir himself to 
find out a flaw in the deed. — But retire to your 
cells, my Sons ; and employ yourselves in 
prayer and devotion, till the great bell warn 
you to attend the execution. [Esednt. 

Scene III. — an apartment in the 

CASTLE. 

Enter Leonora and Agnes, speaking as they 
enter. 

^g. But she is asleep now ; and is so much 
and so suddenly better, that the Confessor, 
when he comes, will be dissatisfied, I fear, 
that we have called him from his cell at such 
an unreasonable hour. 

Leo. Let him come, nevertheless ; don't 
send to prevent him, 

Jig. He will be unwilling to be detained, 
for they are engaged in no common matters 
to-night at the monastery. Count Osterloo,as 
I told you before, is doing voluntary penance 
at the shrine of St. Maurice, to stop the pro- 
gress of this terrible malady. 

Leo. I remember tliou did'st. 

^g. Ah, Marchioness ! you would not say 
so thus faintly, had you seen him march 
through the pass witli his soldiers. He is the 
bravest and most graceful man, though some- 
what advanced in years, that 1 ever beheld. 
— Ah, had you but seen lum ! 

Leo. I have seen liim, Agnes. 

^g. And I spoke of him all the while, yet 
you did not tell me this before ! Ah, my noble 
Mistress and Friend .' the complexion of your 
cheek is altered ; you have indeed seen him, 
and you have not seen him with indifterence. 

Leo. Think as thou v^'ilt about this. He was 
the friend and fellow-soldier of my lord, when 
we first married ; though before iny marriage 
I had never seen him. 

.fig. Friend I Your lord was then in the 
47 



decline of life ; there must have been great 
disparity in their friendship. 

Leo. They were friends, however ; for the 
Marquis liked society younger than himself; 
and I, who had been hurried into an unequal 
marriage, before I could judge for myself, was 
sometimes foolish enough to compare them 
together. 

Jig. Aye, that was natural enough. (Eager- 
ly.) And what happened then .-" 

Leo. (offended.) What happened then ! 
(drcncing herself up proudly.) Nothing hap- 
pened then, but subduing the foolish fancy of 
a girl, which was afterwards amply repaid by 
the self-approbation and dignity of a wo- 
man. 

Jig. Pardon me, Madam ; I ought to have 
supposed all this. But you have been long a 
widow, and Osterloo is still unmarried ; what 
prevented you when free. 

Leo. I was ignorant what the real state of 
his sentiments had been in regard to me. But 
had this been otherwise ; received, as I was, 
into the family of my Lord, the undowried 
daughter of a petty nobleman ; and left as I 
now am, by his confiding love, the sole guar- 
dian of his children and their fortunes ; I 
could never think of supporting a second lord 
on the wealth entrusted to me by the first, to 
the injury of his children. As nothing, there- 
fore, has ever happened in consequence of 
this weakness of ray youth, nothing ever 
shall. 

Jig. This is noble. 

Leo. It is right. But here comes 

the father Confessor. 

Enter Benedict. 
You are welcome, good Father ! yet I am al- 
most ashamed to see you ; for our sick person 
has become suddenly well again, and is now 
in a deep sleep. I fear I shall appear to you 
capricious and inconsiderate in calling you up 
at so late an hour. 

Ben. Be not uneasy, lady, upon this ac- 
count : I am glad to have an occasion for be- 
ing absent from the monastery for some 
hours, if you will permit me to remain here so 
long. 

Leo. What mean you, Father Benedict.'' 
Your countenance is solemn and sorrowful : 
what is going on at the monastery .'' (He 
shakes his head.) Ha ! will they be severe 
with him in a voluntary penance, submitted 
to for the good of the order i" — What is the 
nature of the penance .'' It is to continue, I 
am told, but one night. 

Ben. It will, indeed, soon be over. 

Leo. And will he be gone on the morrow ? 

Ben. His spirit will, but his body remains 
with us forever. 

Leo. (uttering a shriek.) Death, dost thou 
mean ? — O horror ! horror ! Is this the expia- 
tion ? Oh most horrible, most unjust I 

Ben. Indeed I consider it as such. Though 
guilty, by his own confession, of murder, com- 
mitted, many years since, under the frenzy of 



378 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY. 



passion ; it belongs not to us to inilict the 
punisliinent of death upon a guilty soul, ta- 
ken so suddenly and unprepared for its doom. 
Leo. Murder ! didst thou say murder ! Oh 
Osterloo, Osterloo ! hast thou been so barba- 
rous .•* and art thou in this terrible state ? — 
— Must thou thus end thy days, and so near 
me too ! 

Ben. You seem greatly moveij, noble Leo- 
nora : would you could do something more for 
him than lament. 

Leo. {catik'mg hold of Jiim eagerly.) Can I 
do any thing .'' Speak, Father : O tell me 
how ! I will do any thing and every thing. 

Alas, alas ! my vassals are but few, 

and cannot be assembled immediately. 

Ben. Force were useless. Your vassals, if 
they were assembled, would not be persuad- 
ed to attack tiie sacred walls of a monastery. 
Leo. I did indeed rave foolishly : but what 
else can be done :' — Take these jewels, and 
every thing of value in the castle, if they will 
bribe those who guard him, to let him escape. 
• — Think of it. — O think well of it, good Ben- 
edict ! 

Jig. I liave heard that there is a secret pas- 
sage, leading froni the prison-chamber of the 
monastery under its walls, and opening to the 
free country at the bottom of the rocks. 

Ben. By every holy saint, so there is ! and 
the most sordid of our brothers is entrusted 
With the key of it. But who will be his Con- 
ductor ? None but a monk of the Order may 
pass the soldiers who guard him ; and the 
Monk who should do it, must fly from his 
country forever, and break his sacred vows. 
I can oppose the weak fears and injustice of 
my bretliren, for misfortunes and disgust of 
the world, not superstitious veneration for 
monastic sanctity, has covered my head with 
a cowl ; but this I cannot do. 

Jig. There is the dress of a Monk of your 
Order in the old wardrobe of the castle, if some 
person were disguised in it. 

Leo. Tlianks to thee ! thanks to thee, my 
happy Agnes ! I will be that person. — I will 

put on the disguise. Good 

Father ! your face gives consent to this. 

Be7i. If there be time; but I left them pre- 
paring for tiie execution. 

Leo. There is, there is ! — Come with me to 
the wardrobe, and we'll set out for the monas- 
tery forthwith. — Come, come ! — a few mo- 
ments will carry us there. 

[Exit, hastily, foUowed hy Kg. and Ben. 

Scene IV. — a wood near the castlej 

THE STAGE aUITE DARK, 

Enter Two Servants, with Torches, ■»»• 

\st Ser. This must surely be the entry to 
the path, where ray lady ordered us to wait 
for those same Monks. 

2d Ser. Yes ; I know it well, foi yonder is 
the postern. It is the nearest path to the 
monastery, but narrow and difficult. The 



night is cold : I hope they will not keep u^ 
long waiting. 

1st Ser. 1 heard the sound of travellers 
coming up the eastern avenue, and they may 
linger belike ; for Monks are marvellously 
fond of great people and of strangers ; at least 
the good Fathers of our monastery are. 

2d Ser. Aye, in their late Prior's time they 
lived like lords themselves ; and they are not 
very humble at present. — But there's light 
from the postern : here they come. 

Enter Benedict, Leonora disguised like a 

Monk, and Agnes with a Peasant's cloak 
thrown over her. 

Leo. (speaking as she enters.) It is well 
thought of, good Benedict. Go thou before 
me to gain brother Baldwin, in the first place) 
and I'll wait without on the spot we have 
agreed upon, until I hear the signal. 

Ben. Thou comprehendest me completely ; 
Brother ; so God speed us both ! 

{To 1st Ser.) 
Torch-man, go thou with me. This is the 
right path, I trust.'' 

1st Ser. Fear not, Father; I know it well- 
[ExiT Ben. and 1st Ser. 

Leo. {to Agnes, while she waves her hand to 
2d Servant to retire to a greater distance.) 
After 1 am admitted to the monastery, fail 
not to wait for me at the mouth of the secret 
passage. 

Jig. Fear not : Benedict has described it sor 
minutely, I cannot fail to discover it. 

Leo. "What steps are those behind us? 
Somebody following us from the castle .' 

Enter 3d Servant in haste. 

M Ser. There are travellers arrived at the 
gate, and desire to be admitted for the night. 

Leo. In an evil hour they come. Return, 
dear Agnes, and receive them. Benighted 
strangers, no doubt. Excuse my absence any 
how ; go quickly. 

Jig. And leave you to proceed alone ? 

Leo. Care not for me : there is an energy 
within me now, that bids defiance to fear. 
{Beckons to 2d Servant, who goes out before 

her with the torch, and [Exit. 

Jig. {muttering to herself, as she turns to the 
castle.) The evil spirit hath brought travel- 
lers to us at this moment: but I'll send them 
to their chambers right quickly, and join her 
at the secret passage, notwithstanding. 

[Exeunt 



ACT III. 



ScENt: 1. — THE PRISON-CHAMBER 0*" THOt 
MONASTERY. 

Osterloo is discovered, sitting in a bending 
posture, witli his clenched hands pressed up- 
on his knees, and his eyes fixed on the 
ground, Jerome standing by him. 
./er Nay, sink not thus, my Son ; the met' 



THE DREAM : A TRAGEDY. 



379 



cy of Heaven is infinite. Let oliier thoughts 
enter tliy soul : let penitence and devotion 
subdue it. 

Ost. Nothing; but one short moment of di- 
vision between this state of humanity and that 
which is to follow ! The executioner lets fall 
his axe, and the dark veil is rent; the gulf is 
uncovered ; the regions of anguish are before 
me. 

Jer. My Son, my Son ! this must not be ; 
thine imagination overpowers thy devo- 
tion. 

Ost. The dead arc there ; and what welcome 
shall the murderer receive from tliat assem- 
bled host ? Oh, the terrible form that stalks 
forth to meet me I the stretching out of that 
hand 1 the greeting of that horrible smile I 
And it is thou, who must lead me before the 
tremendous majesty of my ofiended Maker ! 
Incomprehensible and dreadful ! What 
thoughts can give an image of that which 
overpowers all thought ! 
(^Clasping his hands tightly over his head, and 

bending himself almost to the ground.) 

Jer. {after a pause.) Art thou entranced .-' 
art thou asleep .-' art thou still in those inward 
agonies of imagination .■' (Touching him soft- 
ly.) Speak to me. 

Ost. {starting tip.) Are they come for me .'' 
They shall not yet : I'll strangle the first man 
tliat lays hold of me. {Grasping Jerome by the 
throat.) 

Jer. Let go your hold, my lord ; I did but 
touch you gently to rouee you from your stu- 
por. 
(Osterloo lets go his hold, and Jerome shrinks 

to a distance.) 

Ost. I have grasped thee, then, too roughly. 
But shrink not from me thus. Strong men 
have fallen by my arm, but a child might 
contend with me now 
(^Throwing himself back again into his chair, 

and bursting into tears.) 

Jer. Forgive me, my Son, there was a wild- 
ness in your eyes that made me afraid. 

Ost. Thou need'st not be afraid : thou art a 
good man, and hast days of life still before 
thee ; tbou need'st not be afraid. 



But, as thou art a good man, speak to me, I 
conjure thee, as a man, not as a Monk : an- 
swer me as the true sense and reason of a 
man doth convince thee. 

Jer. I will, my Son. 

Ost. Dost thou in truth believe, that the 
very instant after life has left the body, we 
are forthwith awake and conscious in the 
world of spirits ? No intermediate state of 
slumbering insensibility between ? 

Jer. It is indeed my belief. Death is but a 
short though awful pass; as it were, a wink- 
ing of the eyes for a moment. We shut them 
in this world, and open them in the next : and 
there we open them with such increased viv- 
idness of existence, tliat this life, in compari- 
son, will appear but as a state of slumber and 

of dreams. But wherefore dost thou 

cross thine arms so closely on thy breast, and 



coil thyself together so wretchedly ? What is 
the mattef , my Son ? Art thou in bodily an- 
guish ? 

Ost. The chilly night shoots icy coldness 
through me. 

Jer. O regard not the poor feelings of a 
fleshly frame, which thou so soon must part 
withal : a little time will now put an end to 
every thing that nature can endure. 

Ost. (raising his head quickly.) Ha ! how 
soon ? Has the bell struck again since I lis- 
tened to it last f 

Jer. No ; but it will soon strike, and day- 
break is at hand. Rouse ye then, and occupy 
the few minutes that remain in acts of devo- 
tion becoming thine unhappy state. O, my 
Son, pour out thy soul in penitent prayers to 
an offended but merciful God. We, too, will 
pray for thee. Months, nay years after thy 
death, masses shall be said for the repose of 
thy soul, that it may at last be received into 
bliss. O my unhappy Son I pour forth thy 
spirit to God ; and let thy prayers also ascend 
to our blessed Saint and Martyr, who will in . 
tercede for thee. 

Ost. I cannot : 1 have not thoughts for 
prayer. — The gulf yawns before me — the un- 
known, the unbounded, the unfathomable ! — 
Prayers I prayers ! what prayers hath de- 
spair ? 

Jer. Hold, hold, refractory Spirit ! This 

obstinacy is destruction. 1 

must call in brother Bernard to assist me ; X 
cannot be answerable alone, in a service of 
such infinite moment. 
Exit ; and after a pause, in which Osterloo 

seems absorbed in the stupor of despair, enter 

Leonora disguised. 

Leo. {coming eagerly foricard, and then 
stopping short to look at him.) 
There is some mistake in this : it is not Os- 
terloo. It is, it is ! but 

Oh, how changed ! Thy hand, great God ! 
has been upon him. {Going closer to him.) 
Osterloo ! Osterloo ! 

Ost. I hear thee. Father. 

Leo. (throtoing aside her disguise.) 

O no ! it is no Father. Lift up thine eyeg 
and see an old Friend before thee, with deliv- 
erance in her hand. {Holding out a key.) 

Ost. {looking up icildly.) Is it a sound in 
my ears, or did any one say deliverance ? 

(Gazing on her.) 
What thing art thou .' A form of magic or 
delusion? 

Leo. Neither, Count Osterloo ; but an old 
friend, bringing this key in her hand for thy 
deliverance. Yet much I fear thou hast not 
strength enough to rise and follow me. 

Ost. (bounding from his seat.) I have 
strength for any thing if there be deliverance 
in it. — Where go we ? They will be upon ua 
immediately. 

Leo. (lifting a small lamp from a table, 
and holding it. to examine the opposite wall.) 
The door, as he described it, is to the right of 
a small projection of the wall.— Here— here it 



380 



THE DREAM. A TRAGEDY. 



is ! {Opens a small door, and beckons Osterloo 
tofollov) her.) » 

Ost. Yes, blessed being ! I will follow thee. 
— Ha ! they are coining 1 
(Strides luistily to the door, while Leonora 
holils up the tamp to light him into it, and 
then going in herself, shuts the door softly be- 
hind her^ 



Scene II. — an olu ruinous vault, 

WITH A STRONG GRATED DOOR ON ONE 
SIDE, THROUGH WHICH THE MOON- 
BEAMS ARE gleaming: on THE OTH- 
ER SIDE, AN OLD WINDING STAIR- 
CASE, LEADING FROM THE UPPER RE- 
GIONS OF THE MONASTERY, FROM 
WHICH A FEEBLE LIGHT IS SEEN, 
INCREASING BY DEGREES, AND PRE- 
SENTLY LEONORA APPEARS, DESCEND- 
ING THE STAIRS WITH A LAMP IN HER 
HAND, FOLLOWED BY OSTERLOO. 

As Leonora enters, something on the wall 
catches her robe, and she turns round to dis- 
entangle it, bending her face close to the 
light. 

Ost. {stopping to assist her, and then gazing 

on her.) 
Thou art something I have known and loved 
somewhere, though it has passed away from 
my mind witli all my better thoughts.' 



Great power of Heaven ! art thou Leo- 
nora .'' 
Leo. {smiling.) Dost thou know me now ? 
Ost. I do, I do'. My heart knew thee be- 
fore, but my memory did not. 

{Kneeling and kissing both her hands.) 
And so it is to thee — thou whom I first loved 
— Pardon me, pardon me ! — thou whom I lov- 
ed, and dared not love ; — thou from whom I fled 
to be virtuous — thou art my deliverer. Oh 
had I never loved another after thee, it had 

been well Knowest thou 

it is a murderer thou art saving ? 

Leo. Say no more of this : I know thy 

story, and I came 

Ost. O ! thou camest like a blessed spirit 
to deliver me from many horrors. I was ter- 
ribly beset : thou hast snatched me from a 
tremendous brink. 

Leo. I hope so, if this key prove to be the 
right one. 

Ost. {alarmed.) Dost thou doubt it .'' 
Leo. It seems to me smaller than it ought 
to he, when 1 consider that massive door. • 

Ost. Give it me. 
{Siiatches the key from her, and runs to the 
door; then turns the key in the lock, and 
finding it too small, stamps with his feet,' 
throws it from him, and holds ujj his clench- 
ed, hands in despair.) 

Leo. Oil, cross fate ! But I'll return again 
for tiie right one. Baldwin cannot be so 
wicked as to deceive me, and Benedict is still 



on the watcli, near the door of the prison- 
chamber. Stay here till 1 return. 
(»S7tft ascends the stairs, ichilst Osterloo leans 
his back to the tcall, frequentbj moting his 
body -up and doicn xcith impatient agitation : 
a bell tolls; Osicrloo starts from his place, 
and Leonora descends again, re-cnlcring in 
great alarm.) 

Leo. Oh ! I cannot go now ; that bell tolls 
to warn them to the great hall : I shall meet 
them on their way. What is to be done ? 
The strength of three men could not force 
that heavy door, and thou art feeble and 
spent. 

Ost. {running furiously to the door.) Des- 
pair has strength for any thing. 
(Seizes hold of the door, and, making two or 

three terrible efforts, bursts it open with a 

Umd jar.) 

Leo. Supernatural strength has assisted 
thee : now thou art free. 
{Jls Osterloo and Leonora arc about to pass 

on through the door, Wovelreid and three 

armed Soldiers appear in the porch beyond 

it, and oppose their jmssage.) 

IVov. Hold ! we are the Prior's Soldiers, 
and will suffer no prisoner to escape. 

Ost. TJiose who dare prevent me ! 
{Wrests a sword from one of the Soldiers, and, 
fighting furiously, forces his tcay past them 

all, they not daring to pursue him. ; when 

Wovelreid seizing on Leonora to prevent her 

from folloicing him, she calls out.) 

Leo. O let me pass! and I'll reward you 
nobly. 

Ost. {returning to rescue Leonora.^ 
Let go thine unhallowed grasp. 

Leo. For Heaven's sake care not for me ! 
Save thyself — save thyself! I am in no dan- 
ger. Turn not again to fight, when such 
terrible odds are against thee. 

Ost. I have arms in my hand now, and ray 
foes are before me ! {Fights fiercely again, 
till Morand, roith a strong band of Soldiers, 
entering the porch behind him, he is overpowered 
and secured; heonoia. siiiks down by the wall 
in a siooon.) 

Wov. Give me a rope. We must bind 
him securely ; for the Devil has put the 
strength of ten men into him, though, but 
half an hour ago, his face was as pale a.s a 
moonlight icicle, and he could scarcely walk 
without being supported. 

Mor. Alas, alas ! his face has returned to 
its former colour; Iiis head sinks on his 
breast, and his limbs are again feeble; and 
listless. I would rather see him fighting like 
a fiend than see him thus. 

Wov. Let us move him hence ; would'at 
thou stop to lament over him .' 

Mor. It was base work in Baldwin to be- 
tray their \Aoi to the Prior, for he took their 
money first, I'll be sworn. 

Wov. He had betrayed the Prior then, and 
all the community besides. 

Mor. Well, let us move him hence : this 
is no business of ours. 



THE DREAM: A TRAGEDY. 



381 



[Exeunt Morand, Wovelreid and Soldiers, 
leading out Osterloo. 

(Enter Agnes by the grated door, and discovers 

Leonora on the ground.) 

^g. O holy virgin ! On the ground, faint- 
ing and ill ! Have the barbarians left, her 
thus? (^Chafing her temples and hand.) 
She begins to revive. It is me, my dearest 
lady: look up and see me; those men are 
all gone. 

Leo. And Osterloo with them ? 

Jig. Alas, he is. 

Leo. It is fated so. Let me lie where I 
am : 1 cannot move yet, my good Agnes. 

Jig. Nay, do not yet despair of saving the 
Count. 

Leo. {starting up and catching hold of her 
eagerly.) How so ? Is it possible ? 

^Ig. The travellers, arrived at the castle, 
are the Imperial Ambassador and his train. 
Night overtook them on the mountains, and 
they are now making merry in the hall. 

Leo. Thank Heaven for this ! Providence 
has sent him hither. I'll go to him instantly, 
and conjure him to interpose his authority to 
save the life of Osterloo. Representing his 
liege lord, the Emperor, the Prior dare not 
disobey his commands, and the gates of the 
monastery will be opened at his call. Who 
comes here ? Let us go. 

Re-enter Morand. 

Mor. {to Leonora.) You are revived again : 
I am glad to see it. Pardon me, lady, that 
I forgot you in your extremity, and let jne 
conduct you safely to the castle. 

Leo. I thank you ; but my servants are 
without. Let me go. Don't follow me, I 
pray you. 

jtlor. Let me support you through the 
porch, and I'll leave you to their care, since 
you desire it. [Exeunt, Leonora supported 
by Morand and Agnes. 

Scene III. — a grand hall, prepared 

FOR THE EXECUTION. 

Soldiers are discovered drawn up [on each 
side of the Scaflbld, with Benedict and seve- 
ral of the Monks on the front of the Stage. 
A bell tolls at measured intervals, with a deep 
pause between ; after which enter Morand, 
hanging his head sorrowfully.) 
Ben. (to Mor.) Is he come forth ? 
1st Monk. Hast thou seen him .'' 
Mor. They are leading him hither, but they 
move slov?ly. 

1st Monk. Thou hast seen him then ; how 
does he look now .'' 

Mor. I cannot tell thee. These few hours 
have done on him the work of many years : 
he seems broken and haggarded with age, 
and his quenched eyes are fixed in their sock- 
ets, like one who walks in sleep. 

Ben. Alas, alas I how changed in little time 
the bold and gallant Osterloo ! 



i St Monk. Have I not told thee, Morand, 
that fear will sometimes couch under the 
brazen helmet as well as the woollen cowl ? 

Mor. Fear, dost thou call it ! Set him this 
moment in the field of battle, with death 
threatening him from a hundred points at 
once, and he would brave it most valiantly. 

Ben. (preventing 1st Monk from answering.) 
Hush, Brother ! Be not so warm, good Lieu- 
tenant ; we believe what thou sayest most 
perfectly. The bravest mind is capable of 
fear, though it fears no mortal man. A brave 
man fears not man ; and an innocent and 
brave man united, fears nothing. 

Mor. Aye, now you speak reason : call it 
fear then if you will. — But the Prior comes ; 
let us go to our places. 

(They arrange themselves ; and then enter the 
Prior, with a train of Monks, who likewise 
arrange themselves : a pause, in which the bell 
tolls as before, and enter Osterloo, support- 
ed by Jerome and Paul, Wovelreid, a.nd 
Soldiers following.) 

Prior, (meeting him with solemnity.) Count 
Osterloo ; in obedience to the will of Heaven , 
for our own^preservation, and the just pun- 
ishment of guilt, 1 am compelled with the 
Monks of this monastery over whom I pre- 
side, to see duly executed within the time 
prescribed, this dismal act of retribution. — 
You have I trust, with the help of these holy 
men, as well as a few short moments would 
allow, closed your mortal account with Heav- 
en : if there be aught that rests upon your 
mind, regarding worldly concerns which you 
leave behind you unsettled, let me know )'our 
last will, and it shall be obeyed. ( To Jerome, 
after pausing for an answer.) Dost thou 
think he understands me ? 

Jer. [to Osterloo. J Did you hear, my Son, 
what the Prior has been saying to you .' 

Ost. I heard words through a multitude of 
sounds. 

Jcr. It was the Prior, desiring to know if 
you have any wishes to fulfil, regarding 
worldly affairs left behind you unsettled. — 
Perhaps to your soldiers you may. 

Ost. {interrupting him eagerly, and looking 
wildly round.) My soldiers ! are they here .' 

Jer. Ah, no ! they are not here ; they are 
housed for the night in their distant quarters : 
they will not be here till the setting of to-mor- 
row's sun. 

Ost. (groaning deeply.) To-morrow's sun ! 

Jer. Is there any wish you would have con- 
veyed to them .■" Are there any of your offi- 
cers to whom you would send a message or 
token of remembrance ^ 

Ost. Ye speak again imperfectly, through 
many ringing sounds. 

(Jer. repeats the question in a slow, distinct 
voice.) 

Ost. Aye there is : these, these — 

(Endeavoring to tear off his cincture and some 
militarij ornaments from his dress.) 1 cannot 
hit upon these fastenings. 



882 



THE DREAM I A TRAGEDY 



Jer. We'll assist you, my Son. {Undoing 
his cincture or girdle, S^-c.) 

Ost. {still endeavouring to do it himself.) 

My sword too, and my daggers. My last 

remembrance to tliem both. 

Jer. To whom, my lord.-' 

Ost. Both— all of them. 

Ben. {who has kept sorrowfully at some dis- 
tance, now approaching eagerly.) Urge him 
no more : his officers will themselves know 
what names he would have uttered. {Turn- 
ing to Ost. uiilh an altered voice.) Yes, no- 
ble Count ; they shall be given as you desire 
witli your farewell affection to all your brave 
followers. 

Ost. I thank ye. 

Jer. And this is all.' 

Ost. iVay, nay ! 

Ben. What is there besides .' 

Frior. {angrily.) There is too much of 
this : and some sudden rescue may prevent 
us. 

Ben. Nay, reverend Father, there is no fear 
of this ; you would not cut short the last 
words of a dying man ? 

Prior. And must I be guided by thy admo- 
nitions .' Beware ; though Baldwin has not 
named thee, I know it is tliou who art the 
traitor. 

Ben. There is but one object at present to 
be thought of, and wilii your leave reverend 
Father, I will not be deterred from it. (To 
Ost. again in a voice of tenderness.) What 
is there besides, noble Osterloo, that you 
would wish as to do ? 

Ost. There is something. 

Ben. What is it, my Lord .'' 

Ost. I wot not. 

Ben. Then let it rest. 

Ost. Nay, nay ! This — this {pulling a 

ring from hisfinger which falls on the ground.) 
My hands will hold nothing. 

Ben. I have found it ; and what shall I do 
with it .' 

Ost. {in a faint hurried voice.) Leonora — 
Leonora. 

Ben. I understand you, my lord. 

Prior. I am under the necessity. Count Os- 
terloo, of saying, your tmie is run to its ut- 
most limit : let us call upon you now for your 
last exertion of nature. These good Brothers 
must conduct you to the scaffold. (Jer. and 
Paul support him toicards the scaffold, while 
Benedict retires to a distance, and turns his 
back to it.) 

Jer. Rest upon me, my Son, you have but 
a few pace.s to go. 

Ost. The ground sinks under me ; my feet 
tread upon nothing. 

Jer. We are now at the foot of the scafibid, 
and there are two steps to mount : lean upon 
us more firmly. 

Ost. {.<!tuni.bling.) It is dark I cannot see. 

Jer. Alas, my Son ! there is a blaze of 
torches round you. (-fiftcr they are on the 
scaffold.) Now, in token of thy faitli in Heav- 



en, and forgiveness of all men, raise up thy 
clasped hands. {Seeing Ost. make a feeble 
effort, lie raises them for him in a posture of 
devotion.) And now to Heaven's mercy we 
commit thee. 
(Jerome and Paul re^jVe,ffln<Z two Executioners 

prepare him for the block, and assist him to 

kneel. He then lays down his head, and they 

hold his hands while a third. Executioner 

stands with the raised axe.) 

1st Ex. {speaking close into his ear.) Press 
my hand when you are ready for the stroke. 
{Jl long pause.) 
He gives no sign. 

2d Ex. Stop, he will immediately. 

{Jl second pause.) 
Does he hot ? 

1st Ex. No. 

Prior. Then give the stroke without it. 
{'.M Ex. prepares to give the stroke, when the 

Imperial Ambassador rushes into the hall, 

followed by Leonora and Agnes, and a nu- 
merous train.) 

Jim. Stop the execution ! In the name of 
your liege lord the Emperor, I command you 
to stop upon your peril. My lord Prior, this 
is a treacherous and clandestine use of your 
scignorial power. This noble servant of our 
Imperial Master {pointing to Osterloo) I take 
under my protection ; and you must first de- 
prive an Imperial Ambassador of lite, ere one 
hair of his head fall to the ground. 

Ben. {running to the scaffold.) Up noble 
Osterloo ! Raise up thy head : thou art rescu- 
ed : thou art free. 

Leo. Rise, noble Osterloo ! dost thou not 
know the voice that calls thee ? 

Ben. He moves not : he is in a swoon. 
(Raises Osterloo from the block, 7chilst Leonora 

bends over him with anxious tenderness. 

Leo. He is ghastly pale : yet it surely can 
be but a swoon. Chafe his hands, good Ben- 
edict, while I bathe his temples. {JJfler try- 
ing to restore him.) Oh, no, no ! no change 
takes place. What thinkest thou of it .■* Is 
there any life here ? 

Ben. In truth I know not : this seems tome 
the fixed ghastly visage of complete death. 

Leo. Oh, no, no ! he will be restored. No 
stroke has fallen upon him : it cannot be death. 
Ha ! is not that something ? Did not his lips 
move .'' 

Ben. No, lady; you but deceive yourself; 
they moved not : they are closed forever. 

Leo. (wringing her hands.) Oh it is so ! it 
is so ! — after all thy struggles and exertions 
of despair, this is thy miserable end ! — Alas, 
alas ! thou who didst bear thy crest so proudly 
in many a well-fought field ; this is thy mis- 
erable end! {Turning away, and hiding her 
face in the bosom of Agnes.) 

Am. {examining the body more closely.) I 
tliink in very truth he is dead. 

1st Gentleman of his Train. Yes ; the face 
never looks thus, till every spark of life is ex- 
tinguished. 



THE DREAM I A TRAGEDY, 



3S3 



Am. {turning fiercely to the Prior.) How is 
Ihis, Prior ? Wliat sorcery has been here, 
Ihat your block alone should destroy its vic- 
tim, vvlien the stroke of the axe has been 
Wanting ? What account shall 1 carry to my 
master of the death of his gallant General ? 

Prior. No sorcery hath been practised on 
the deceased : his own mind has dealt with 
him alone, and produced the effects you be- 
hold. And, when you return to Lewis of 
Bavaria your Master ; tell him that his noble 
General, free from personal injury of any 
kind, died , within the walls of this monastery, 
of fear. 

Jim. Nay, nay, my good Prior; put the 
fool's cap on thine own head, and tell him tiiis 

tale thyself. ■ Fear ! Osterloo 

and fear coupled together ! when the lion and 
the fawn are found couching in the same lair, 
we will believe this. 

Prior. All the Brothers of the Order will 
attest it. 

Am. Away with the testimony of your 
cowled witnesses ! {Beckoning Morand to 
tome near.) Morand, thou art a brave fellow ; 
I have known thee of old. Thou art the 
Prior's oilJcer indeed : but thou art now un- 
der my protection, and shalt be received into 
the Emperor's service with increased rank : 
Speak the truth then, boldly ; how died Count 
Osterloo .'' 

Mor. in very truth then, my Lord, accord- 
ing to my simple thoughts, he died even as 
the Prior has told you. 

Am. Out upon thy hireling's tongue ! art 
thou not ashamed, thyself wearing a Soldier's 
gajb, to blast a Soldier's fame .' There is no 



earthly thing the brave Osterloo was ever 
known to fear. 

Mor. You say true, my lord ; and on my 
sword's point I'll maintain it against any man 
as stoutly as yourself But here is a pious 
Monk {pointing to Jerome) who will explain 
to you what I should speak of but lamely. 

Jer. With the Prior's permission, my lord, 
if you will retire with me a little while, I'll 
inform you of this mysterious event, even 
simply as it happened. And perhaps you will 
then confess, that, called upon suddenly, un- 
der circumstances impressing powerfully the 
imagination, to put off this mortal frame, and 
stand forth in that tremendous presence, be- 
fore which this globe, with all its mighty em- 
pires, hangs but as a crisped rain-drop, shiver- 
ing on the threaded gossamer ; the bravest 
mind may, if a guilty one, feel that within 
which is too powerful for human nature to 
sustain. 

Am. Explain it as thou wilt ; I shall lis- 
ten to thee : but think not to cheat our Im- 
perial Master of his revenge for the loss of his 
gallant General. I shall not fail, my Lord 
Prior, to report to him the meek spirit of your 
christian authority, which has made the gen- 
eral weal of the community subservient to 
your private revenge ; and another month, I 
trust, shall not pass over our heads, till a 
worthier man {pointing to Benedict) shall pos- 
sess this power which you have so greatly 

abused. • Let 

the body be removed, and laid in solemn state, 
till it be delivered into the hands of those 
brave troops, who shall inter it with the hon- 
ours of a Soldier. 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN: 

Count Valdf.mere. 
Baron Baurchel. 
Walter Baurchel, his Brother. 
Antonio, Baron dc Bcrtrand. 
Dartz,, his Friend. 
Paoe, to Count Valdemere. 
LoRiMuRE, his Valet. 

HovELBERG, « Jewel or Diamond Merchant. 
Soldiers, Servants, &c. 

WOMEN : 

Countess Valdemere, Mother to the Count. 

LiVIA. 

Jeanetta, JVoman to the Countess. 

Nina. 

Ladies, &c. 

Scene. — A Castle on the French confines of 
Germany. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — a grove near the castle, 

WITH PART OF THE EMBATTLED 
WALLS SEEN THROUGH THE TREES. 

Enter Baron Baurchel and Walter Baur- 
chel, speaking as they enter. 

Bar. Have done, Brother ; I can ear it no 
longer. Hadst thou been bred in a cave of 
Kamsehatka, instead of a mansion of civil- 
ized Europe, this savage plainness had been 
endurable : but 

Walt. I call a turnip a turnip, indeed, vphen 
other people say it is a peach or a nectarine ; 
I call a pig a pig too, though they swear it is 
a fawn or an antelope ; and they look at me, 
I confess, somewhat suspiciously, as if they 
expected to see a tail peeping from under my 
jerkin, or fur upon my hands like a bear. — 
You would have me civilized, would you .-' It 
is too late in the day now, good sooth ! 

Bar. Yes, the time is indeed gone by. This 
bachelor's life has brutified thee past all re- 
demption. Why did you not marry, Brother ? 

Walt. Nay, you who have met with so many 
goddesses and creatures of perfection in the 
world, why did not you marry. Brother .' 1 
who could light upon nothing better than 
women — mere women ; every one of them 
too with some fault or failing belonging to 
her, as obvious as those wliitc hairs tJiat now 
look from under your peruke, was it any mar- 
Tel that I did not marry .' 



Bar. Had your wife possessed as many 
faults as you do wrinkles ou your forehead, 
you would have been the better for her ; she 
would have saved thee, as I said before, from 
brutitication. 

Walt. And yout's would have saved you 
from dupification, dotification, and as many 
fications besides, as an old sentimental, hyp- 
ocritical, greedy Dulcinea can fasten on a 
rhyme-writing beau, who is stepping most 
unwillingly, with his lace-cloaked hose, over 
that ungracious line of division, that marks 
out his grand climacteric. 

Bar. Hypocritical ! greedy '. you don't 
know the delicacy of her mind : nothing can 
be more tender, more refined, more disinter- 
ested than her attachment tome. You don't 
understand her. 

Walt. Perhaps, 1 don't understand the 
attachments of the fair sex now-a-days. An 
old rich neighbour of mine informed me the 
other night, that he is going to marry his poor 
friend Spendall's youngest daughter, who has 
actually fallen in love with him ; and noth- 
ing, as he tells me, almost in your own v/ords, 
can be more tender, more disinterested than 
her attachment. Not understanding these 
matters, Brother, I'll freely confess to you I 
did not give much credit to his story ; but I 
may be wrong, nevertheless. 1 dare say you 
believe it entirely. , 

Bar. Ridiculous ! What proofs can the fool 
possibly receive of her attachment .■' 

Walt. The very same which the Countess 
so condescendingly vouchsafes to yourself; 
she accepts of his presents. 

Bar. The very same ! No, no, Walter 
Baurchel ; very different ! Does not every 
smile of her countenance, every look of her 
eyes, involuntarily express her partiality for 
me ? 

Walt. Say, rather, every word of her tongue 

Bar. With what generous enthusiasm did 
she not praise my sonnet to Sensibility. 

Walt. Aye, she is generous in what costs 
her little ; for what are two or three lies, 
more or Ifss, in the week's confession between 
her and Father Benedict.' She'll scarcely 
eat a mouthful of partridge the less for it. 

Bar. O heartless infidel ! Thou wuuldst 
mistrust the fond smiles of a mother caressing 
her roay-fuced infant. 

Walt. By my faith, so I would, Baron, if 
that same infant brought a diamond necklace, 
or a gold snuff-box in his hand, for every kiss 
she bestowed upon him. Every sonnet you 
write, costs you, one with another, a liundred 
louis d'ors. If all the money vanity filches 
from rich poets, could be transferred to the 
pockets of poor ones, verse-making would be 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDY. 



385 



as good a business as shoe-making, or any 
other liandicraft in the country. 

Bar. Hold thy unhallowed tong'ue ! These 
subjects are not for thy rade handhng. What 
is all this grumbling intended for ? Tell me 
what you want, and have done with it ; you 
who pique yourself so much on your plain 
speaking. 

IValt. Well, then ; I want you to let the 
next six sonnets you write go unpraised, and 
give the money that should have paid for the 
praising of them, six hundred louis d'ors, as 
1 reckon, to Antonia. Is it not a shame that 
your own ward and lieir, in love with the 
lady of tills castle, as you very well know, 
cannot urge his suit with advantage , for want 
of the equipage and appendages becoming his 
rank ; while this conceited Count, by means 
of his disinterested mother, drains your purse 
so freely ; and is thereby enabled to ruin the 
pretensions of him whom you ought to sup- 
port .'' 

Bai\ His pretensions are absurd, and can- 
not be supported. 

IValt. Why absurd.' Is he not as brave, as 
well born, as handsome, too, as his rival .'' 

Bar. What signify all his good qualities .' 
In the presence of his mistress he is an idiot. 

iValt. It is true, he loses all possession of 
himself in that situation, and tlierefore she 
despises him, while the gay confidence of the 
other delights her : but he should be support- 
ed and encouraged. 

Bar. How encouraged .' Silly fellow ! 

JValt. He feels too sensibly his disadvanta- 
ges, and they depress him. He feels that 
he is not entitled to pretend to Livia, but as 
the probable heir of your estates ; while your 
fantastical fondness for this woman and her 
son, makes it a doubtful matter whether you 

may not be tempted But hush ! here 

she comes with her new-ruddled face, bear- 
ing her morning's potation of flattery with 
her, for a stomach of most wonderful diges- 
tion. 

Enter Countess, Valdemere, who, after 
slightly noticing Walter, runs up caressingly 
to liie Baron : 

Countess. How do you do, my dear Baron •'' 
I hope you have passed the night in sweet 
repose. — Yet, why do 1 hope it.-" You scarce- 
ly deserve that I should. 

Bar. And why so, Belinda ? 

Walt, {aside, making a lip at them.) Belin- 
da, too I Sweet innocents ! 

Bar. Why should you not hope that I have 
passed the night in repose .' 

Countess. Because I am vindictive, and 
would be revenged upon you for making me 
pass a very sleepless one. 

Walt, (aside.) Will she make love to him 
before one's very face. 

Bar. Then I am a culprit indeed, but an 
innocent one. What kept you awake? 

Countess. O, those verses of yours I tliose 
dear provoking verses ! they haunted me the 
43 



whole night. (Baron botes.) But don't tliink I 
am going to talk to you of their beauties — 
those tender easy graces which they possess, 
in common with every thing that comes from 
your pen: I am going to tell you of their de- 
fects. You know well my friendship for 
you, my dear Baron, makes me sometimes 
severe. 

Bar. {aside to Walt.) There now, you 
Churl, do you call this flattery ? {Maud .) My 
dear Countess, your severity is kindness. 

Countess. Receive it then, as such ; for in- 
deed i must be very severe on the two last 
lines of the second stanza, which have dis- 
turbed me exceedingly. In the verses of an 
ordinary poet, I should not find fault with 
them; but in a work, where every thing be- 
sides, is easy, harmonious and correct, the 
slightest defect is conspicuous ; and I must 
positively insist on your altering them, though 
you should hate me for being so fastidious. 

Bar. {aside to Walt.) There now, ungra- 
cious Canker- tongue, do you call this hypoc- 
risy ? (Aloud.) Madam, I kiss the rod in so 
fair and so friendly a hand. Nay, it is a 
sceptre, to which I bow with devotion. 

Countess, {to Walt.J You see, good Sir, I 
take great liberties with the Baron, as, I doubt 
not, with the privilege of a brother, you your- 
self sometimes do. 

Walt. Yes, Madam, but my way of finding 
fault with him is somewhat different from 
}'ours. 

Countess. Yet, you still find his generous 
spirit, I am sure, submissive to the rod. 

Walt. I can't say I do. Madam. 

Countess. You are unfortunate enough, per- 
haps, to use it unskilfully. 

Walt. I am fortunate at present, however, 
in receiving so good a lesson from you, Mad- 
am. 

Countess. O no ! there is no skill with me. 
There are persons to whom one cannot say 
one-half of what one really thinks, without 
being deemed a flatterer. 

Walt. In this, however, I have been more 
fortunate than you, Madam; for I have said 
to him what I have really thought for these 
forty years past, and have entirely escaped 
that imputation. 

Bar. Aye, flattery is a sin thou wilt never 
do penance for. Thou can'st rub the side of 
a galled jade with any tender-hearted inno- 
cent in Christendom, and be mighty surprised 
withal that the poor devil should be so unrea- 
sonable as to winch at it. 

Countess. Nay, nay. Baron ! say not this of 
so, good a brother, the shrewdness and pene- 
tration of whose mind are tempered, 1 am sure, 
with manj amiable qualities. 

Walt. Nay, pray, Madam, spare me, and 
deal with but one of us at a time. Such words 
will intoxicate a poor younger brother like 
myself, wiio is scarcely able to get a fowl for 
his pot, or new facings for his doublet, and 
cannot therefore be supposed to be accustomed 
to them. 



386 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDY. 



Countess. Sir, I understand not your insin- 
uation. 

Bar. Regard him not, Madam : how should 
a mind, noble and delicate as your own, com- 
prciiend the unworthy thoughts of contempti- 
ble meanness ? — Let me conduct you to com- 
pany more deserving of you. Our fair host- 
ess, 1 suppose, is already in her grotto. 

Countess. No, she and my son are to follow 
me. But you must not go to the grotto with 
me now : nobody is to see it till the even- 
ing. 

Bar. (offering to lead her out.) A step or 
two only. 

Countess. O, not a step for the world ! 
[Exit, Baron kissing her hand as she goes off. 

Bar. (turning fiercely w/joji Walt.j Thy un- 
mannerly meanness is intolerable. Still hint- 
ing at the presents she receives. Greedy as 
thou call'st her, she never asked a gift from 
me in her life, excepting my picture in min- 
iature, which could only be valuable to her 
as she prized the original. 

Walt. Say rather, as her jeweller shall prize 
the goodly brilliants that surround it. 

Bar. What do you mean .' 

Walt. What I should have told you before, 
if she had not interrupted us ; that her trin- 
ket-broker is this very morning coming secret- 
ly, by appointment, to the castle, to treat with 
her for certain things of great value which 
she wishes to dispose of; and if your picture 
be not amongst tliem, Fll forfeit my head upon 
it. 

Bar. It is false. 

Walt. Here comes one who will confirm 
what I say. 

Enter Dartz. 

Walt. I'm glad to see you. Chevalier, for 
you can bear evidence to a story of mine that 
will not be believed else. 

Dart. This is a better reason for being so 
than most of my friends have to give. 

Walt. Is not Hovelberg, the jeweller, com- 
ing secretly to the castle to-day to confer 
with the Countess ? 

Dart. Yes, he told me so himself; and ad- 
ded, with a significant smile, that she had 
some of her old ware to dispose of. 

Walt. Do you hear that, brother .' It was 
as much as to say, she had often had such 
truckings with him before. Aye ; you are 
not the only man who has thought his own 
dear resemblance lapped warmly behind the 
stomacher of his mistress, while, stripped of 
its jewels, it has been tossed into the drawer 
of some picture-monger, to be clianged into a 
General of the last century, or one of the 
Grand-Dukes of Austria. As for you, bro- 
ther, they'll put a black velvet cap on your 
head, and make you a good sombre doctor of 
theology. 

Bar. You shall not, however, make me the 
credulous man you think of, Walter Baurchel, 
with all your contrivances. 

Walt. And you don't believe us then .-' 



Bar. Are you fool enough to imagine I 
do.' 

Walt. That were foolish enough, I grant 
you ; for though an old [lover has generally 
a strong vein of credulity about him, the cur- 
rent of his belief always sets one way ; car- 
rying withered nosegays, tattered billet-doux, 
broken posies, and all kinds of trumpery 
along with it at fifteen knots by the hour. 

Bar. Walter Baurchel ! Walter Baurchel ! 
flesh and blood cannot endure tlie offensive 
virulence of thy tongue. 

Dart. He is indeed too severe with you. Ba- 
ron ; but what he tells you of Hovelberg is, 
nevertheless, very true. 

Bar. I'll believe neither of you : you are 
both hatching a story to deceive me. 

[Exit in anger. 

Walt, (shrugging his shoulders and casting 
up his eyes.) Wliat strong delusion we poor 
mortals may be blinded withal ! That poor 
brotlier of mine behoves, that the woman who 
refused to marry him when he was young and 
poor, yet smiles upon him, praises him, accepts 
presents from him when he is old and rich, 
must certainly entertain for him a most deli- 
cate, disinterested attachment ; and you 
miglit as well overturn the walls of tliat cas- 
tle with one stroke of your foot as beat this ab- 
surdity out of him. 

Dart. But you are too violent : it will not 
be beat out; it must be got out as it got in, 
with craft and discretion. 

Walt. Tlien devil take me for attempting 
it ! for craft I have none, and discretion is a 
thing 

Dart. You will never have any thing to do 
with, I believe. 

Walt. What then is to be done .' If it were 
not that I cannot brook to see the conceited 
overbearing son of this Jezebel, carrying off 
the mistress of Antonia, I would even let the 
old fool sit under the tickling of her thievish 
fingers, and make as great a noodle of himself 
as he pleases. — But it must not be. — Fie upon 
it, Dartz ! thou hast a good head for inven- 
tion, while I, Heaven help me ! have only 
a good tongue for railing; do thou contrive 
some plot or other to prevent the disgrace of 
thy friend. 

Dart. Plots are not easily contrived. 

Walt. I know this, else I should have tried 
it myself. 

Dart. Are you well acquainted with tlie 
Count .? 

Walt. I am but just come to the castle, 
where I have thrust myself in, though an un- 
welcome guest, to look after the interest of 
De Bertrand ; and should be glad to know 
something more of the man who has so much 
intoxicated the gay Livia. What kind of a 
being is he .' 

Dart. It would puzzle me as much as the 
contriving of your plot to answer that ques- 
tion. There is nothing real in lain. He is a 
mere package of pretences, poorly Jield to- 
gether, with sense and capacity enough, were 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



387 



it not for one defect in his nature, to make 
him all that he affects to be. He is a thing 
made up of seemings. 

IValt. Made up of seemings ! 

Dart. Even so ; for what in other men is 
reckoned the sincerest part of their character, 
his very self-conceit, is assumed. 

IValt. And what is the defect you hinted 
at.' 

Dart. It has been whispered to me by an 
old school-fellow of his, that he is deplorably 
deficient in personal courage ; which accounts 
for his mother's having placed him in the reg- 
iment of a superannuated General, and also, 
for the many complaints he makes of the in- 
activity of his commander. It is a virhisper I 
am inclined to credit ; and, if we must have a 
plot, it shall hinge upon this. 

Walt. My dear fellow ! nothing can be bet- 
ter. Give it a turn or two in thy brains, and 
I'll warrant thou drawest it out again, shaped 
into an admirable plot. Direct all thyself, and 
I'll work under thee as a journeyman conspir- 
ator ; for, as I said before, I have a ready 
tongue, but a head of no invention. 

Dart. We must speak of this another time. 
See who approaches. 

IValt. Ha ! the man we are speaking of, 
and the deluded Livia. By my faith lie lias 
a specious appearance ! and the young fool 
looks at him too, as she would not look at a 
worthier man, whose merit might be tarnished 
with a few grains of modesty. 

Enter Valdemere and LiviAj followed by 

Jeanette carrying a basket filled with flow- 
ers, ttc. 

Dart, (to Liv.) Permit me, Madam, to pay 
you my profound homage. 

Liv. You are welcome here. Chevalier : 
what accident procures me this pleasure.' 
{Aside to Count.) Hell make one more at our 
midnight revel in the grotto. 

Vald. {Aside with some chagrin.) Are there 
not enow of us .' 

Dart. Being in this part of the country on 
military duty, 1 could not resist the pleasure 
of paying my respects at the castle : and 1 
honestly confess I had a secondary motive 
for my visit, expecting to find amongst your 
guest, my old friend and school-fellow Anto- 
nia. 

Liv. Baron de Bertrand, you mean. He 
was here yesterday, but I really forget wheth- 
er he went away or remained in the evening. 
{Affecting to yawn.) Is he with us, or not, 
Count .' 

Walt, {aside to Dart.) Meet me by-and-by 
in my chamber. My tongue is unruly, and I 
had better go wlrile I can keep it between 
my teeth. [E.\it. 

Liv. Does not his amiable relation there, 
who steals from us so quietly, know where 
he is ? 

Vald. If you are in quest of your friend. 
Chevalier, had you not better inquire at some 
of the peasants', houses in the neighborhood.' 



There may be some beauty in the village 
perhaps, whose august presence a timid man 
may venture to approach, particularly if her 
charms should be somewhat concealed behind 
the friendly fla.x of her distaff. 

Dart. Pardon me, Count ; I thought my 
friend had aspired to a beauty, whose charms 
would have pleased him, indeed, behind the 
flax of a distaff, but will not, I trust entirely 
intimidate him from the more brilliant situa- 
tion in which fortune has placed them. Aye ; 
that glance in 3'our eye, and that colour in 
your cheek, charming Livia, tell me, 1 am 
right. 

Liv. They speak at random then; for it 
would puzzle a much wiser head than I wear 
on my shoulders to say what are his preten- 
sions. He visits me, it is true, but suddenly 
takes his leave again, and the very next day, 
perhaps, as suddenly returns. 

Vald. Like poor puss with roasted chesnuts 
before her, who draws back her burnt paw 
every time she attempts them, but will not 
give up the attack. He may, however, after 
some more of those hasty visits, find coui-age 
for it at last. 

Dart. There is one attack, however, for 
which he never lacks courage ; when the 
enemies of his country are before him. 

Vald. True; he is brave in the field, but 
he is fortunate also. He serves under an ac- 
tive Commander, while 1 waste my ardour 
in listless inactivity. 

Dart. Cheer up then, noble Count, 1 have 
good news to tell you upon this score. 

Vald. on this score ! Is any change to take 
place .' (In a feeble voice.) 

Dart, {after a pause.) You are too well 
bred to be impatient for an answer. 

Vald. O no ! You mistake me ; I am very 
impatient ; I am on fire to hear it. 

Dart. Expand then your doughty breast 
at thoughts of the glorious fields that are be- 
fore you : your old General is set aside, and 
the most enterprising man in the service, 
Count — : -himself is now your Command- 
er. {After a momentary pause, and eyeing him 
keenly.) Silent joj', they say, is most sincere ; 
you are, I perceive, considerately and pro- 
foundly glad. 

Vald. {assuming suddenly great animation.) 
O immeasurably so. Great news indeed ! — 
Strange — I mean very admirable news, if one 
could be sure it were true. 

Dart. True! Who doubts what delights 
him .' 

Vald. I thought the regiment was promis- 
ed to another person ; I was not prepared to 
hear it. 

Dart. So it appeared. 

Vald. But I am delighted — I can't express 
it : — I'm glad to a folly. Tol de rol — tol de 
rol. {Singing and skipping about aff'cctcdly.) 

Liv. Cruel creature 1 to sing at what, per- 
haps, will make others weep. 

Vald. Weep ! — No, I don't weep, lam hap- 



388 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDi;. 



py to a folly, but I don't weep. (Skippintr 
about again.) Tol lol de rol ! — plague take 
these stones ! this ground is abominably 
rough. 

Dart. Fie upon it ! any ground is smooth 
enough for a happy man to skip upon. 

Liv. You smile, Dartz; your news is of 
your own invention. 

Dart. Not absolutely, Madam ; there was 
such a rumour. 

Vald. (eagerly.) A rumour ! only a rumour ! 
Why did you say it was true .'' 

Dart. To give you a moment's pleasure, 
Valdemore. If you have enjoyed it you area 
gainer ; and the disappointment, I hope, will 
not break your heart. 

Vald. It is cruel indeed. But who can feel 
disappointment in this fair presence. (Bow- 
ing to Liv.) Let us go to the grotto, charming 
Livia ; we waste our time here with folly. — I 
Give me thy basket, child, (to Jean.) I'll 
dispose of every chaplet it contains to admi- 
ration. I'll hang them all up with mine own 
hand. 

Liv. Don't be so very active : you positive- 
ly shan't follow me to the grotto : I told you 
so before. 

Vald. Positive is a word of no positive 
meaning when it enforces what we dislike. 
However, since you forbid it, 1 will not fol- 
low you ; I'll go by your side, which is far 
better, and support your fair hand on my arm. 
(Putting Livia's arm in his with conceited con- 
fidence.) 

Liv. What a sophistical explanation of my 
words ! a heretical theologian is a joke to you. 
Vald. (Casting a triumphant look behind 
him to Dart, as he leads her off.) Good morn- 
ing, Chevalier, you go in questof your friend, 
I suppose. Pray tell him to take courage, 
and be less diffident of his own good parts, 
and he may at last be promoted, perhaps, to 
the good graces of his Quarter-Master's 
daughter. 

Dart. No body at least, who sees Count 
Valdimere in his present situation, will think 
of recommending modesty to him. 

[Exeunt Vald. and h\v . folloieed by Jean. 
Dart. Impudent puppy ! his triumph shall 
be short. Blind woman ! are flattery and im- 
pudence so necessary in gaining your favour, 
that all other qualities, without them, are an- 
nihilated ? He shall this very night pay dear- 
ly for his presumption. [Exit. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — a room in the castle. 

Enter Walter Baurchel and Dartz, by 
opposite sides. 

Walt. Ha, my good friend ! punctual to a 
wish ! you have got your head stored I hope 
with a good plot. 

Dart. 1 am at least more in the humour for 



it than I was. I have found his conceit and 
arrogance more intolerable than I imagined. 
I have touched him in the weak part too, and 
find him vulnerable. 

tValt. Well, but the plot. 
Dart. I have discovered also a trait of vil- 
lany in him, that would prick me on to the 
charge were I sluggish as a tortoise. 

Halt. So much the better. Now for the 
plot. 

Dart. As I passed just now through the 
little green copse near the postern, a beautiful 
girl crossed my way and in tears. 

Walt. Tut ! she has crossed thy wits too. 
Dart. Have patience ; she'll be useful. — I 
questioned her gently. 

Walt. Aye ; gently enough, I doubt not. 
Dart. And find she is sister to that shrewd 
little fellow the Count's page ; that her aifec- 
tious have been gained and betrayed by Val- 
demere ; and she is now hovering about the 
castle, for an opportunity of upbraiding him, 
or in the vain hope, perhaps, of moving his 
pity. 

JValt. She has moved thy pity at least; 
what has till this to do with our plot ? 

Dart. A great deal: I am telling you before- 
hand what we shall have to work upon : a 
plot cannot, any more than a coat, be made 
without materials. 

Walt. Well, but shew me thy pattern first, 
and talk of the buttons and buckram after- 
wards. 

Dart. Be it so then, since you are so im- 
patient. There is a friend of mine stationed 
about a league hence with his regiment; 
where he is to wait till he is joined by another 
detachment of the army, as the enemy, it is 
feared, may penetrate to these parts, and over- 
run the country. 1 mean to go to him imme- 
diately ; make him privy to our design, and 
engage him to send a party of his soldiers to 
make a sham attack upon the castle at mid- 
night, when we shall all be assembled at this 
fanciful banquet in the grotto. 
Walt, (nodding his head.) Good. 
Dart. Valdemere then, as the gallant soldier 
he affects to be, and the favoured admirer too 
of the lady, must of course take upon himself 
the defence of her castle. 

Walt, (nodding again.) Very good. 
Dart. This will quell his presumption, 1 
trust ; and expose him to Livia for the very 
paltry being that he is. 

Walt. Aye, so far good; you'll make some 
furtherance to the plot out of tliis. 

Dart. Some furtherance to the plot ! Why 
this is the plot itself. 

Walt. The plot itself! Any simple man in 
the country might have devised as much as 
this comes to. 

Dart. It does not please you then because 
it is not intricate. But don't despise it entire- 
ly ; though the outline is simple, tricks and 
contrivances to work up the mind of our vic- 
tim to the state that is suited to our purpose, 
will enrich it as we proceed ; and the Page I 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



3G9 



have mentioned, provoked by the wrongs of 
his sister, will be our subtle and diligent 
agent. Nay, should we draw Valdemere into 
great disgrace, we may bribe him, by conceal- 
ing his dishonour, to marry the poor girl he 
has wronged. 

JValt. Ha ! this indeed is something like a 
plot. — And Antonia's marriage with Livia, 
how is that to be fastened to the end of it .' 

Dart. Nay, I have no certain hook, I con- 
fess, to hang that upon. It must depend on 
the Baron ; for unless he declare Antonia his 
heir, ho will never venture to propose himself 
as a match for the well-dowried Livia. But 
we shall manage matters ill, if we cannot draw 
the Baron into our scheme. 

Walt. Then a fig for your plot ! It is as 
bare of invention as the palm of my hand. 

Dart. This is always the case with those 
who lack invention themselves : they are ne- 
ver pleased with that of any other person, if 
it be not bristled over with contrivances like 
a hedge-hog. And 1 must be allowed to say, 
Mr, Walter Baurchel, that he who racks his 
brains for your service, works for a thankless 
master. 

fValt. He works for an honest one, then. 

Dart. Away with the honesty that cannot 
afford a few civil words to a friend, who is 
doing his best to oblige you ! As much dupli- 
city as this amounts to, would not much con- 
taminate your virtue. 

Walt. Well, well, I am wrong, perhaps, but 
thou art as testy as myself. 

Dart. Because I won't bear your untoward 
humour. Some people find every body testy 
who approaches them, and marvel at their 
own bad luck. — But no more of this : let us 
think of our friend. Does the Baron believe 
what you told him of Hovelberg.'s appoint- 
ment with the Countess .'' 

Walt. He makes a shew of not believing it, 
but I think he has his own suspicions at bot- 
tom ; for his valet tells me, he has sent to 
desire Hovelberg to speak with him as soon 
as he arrives. 

Dart. Here comes De Bertrand ; I hear 
his steps. 

Walt. Is he returned to the castle ? 

Dart. Yes : I forgot to tell you so, you 
were in such a hurry for your plot. 

Wali. Silly fellow ! he cannot stay av;ay 
from his capricious mistress, though the first 
glance of her eye sinks him to a poltron at 
once. 

Enter Antonia. 

Jlnt. {to Walt.) Good morning, gentle Kins- 
man; — but methinks you are not very glad 
to see me ; these are not looks of welcome. 

Walt. Thou art one of those that trouble me. 

Jlnt. I am of a pretty numerous class of 
beings then, from the kitten that gnaws at 
your shoestring, to the Baron, who spoils 
your best pen in writing love- verses to his 
mistress. 

Walt. Well ; and they would torment any 



man. Love- verses ■ with such an old paint- 
ed hypocrite for the object of them ! 

.']nt. His first love, you know ; his Delia. 

Halt. His Delia ! His delusion. Is there 
such a thing as witchcraft in the world ? I 
believe in good earnest there is. Her domin- 
ion over him is a mystery ; a more than 
Egyptian blindness. 

Jjnt. Nay, you have yourself in a good de- 
gree to blame for it, my good Sir. Had you 
encouraged his humour, harmless as it is ; 
bestowing some praise on his verses, and less 
abuse on the too youthful cut of his peruke, 
she could never have taken possession of him 
as she has done. 

Walt. Praise his verses, and not abuse his 
peruke ! it had been beyond the self-denial of 
a saint. 

Dart. And had you 

Walt, (to Dart.) One assailant at a time, if 
you please. 

Dart. Excuse me, Sir ; I must needs say, 
had you even paid a little attention to the 
Countess herself, v.'hen she first renewed her 
intimacy v/ith the Baron, she would have 
been less anxious, perhaps, to estrange him 
from liis old friends. 

Walt. Attention to her ! I could not have 
done it to gain myself, like Mahomet, tiie en- 
trance to the seventh heaven. I must tell 
people plainly what I think of them, though 
1 should hang for it. 

Dart. Had you said starve for it, you had 
named the fate that more commonly attends 
plain speaking. 

Jint. And in telling people disagreeable 
truths to gratify your own humour too, are 
you surprised, my good Sir, that tiicy should 
not be edified thereby .'' 

Walt, (to Ant.) What, young Soldier, you 
are become a plain speaker too. 

Jliit. Just to shew you. Sir, how agreeable 
it is. 

Walt. Ha, ha, ha ! Well ; thou hast the 
better of me now. V/ould thou could'st prate 
as briskly to thy mistress I that would do 
more for thee in one hour than all thy bash- 
ful tenderness in a year. 

.I'liit. I might 1 should indeed 1 

defend not my weakness. — You promised on 
this point to spare mo.' 

Walt. Aye, the very sound of her name 
quells thy spirit, and makes thee hesitate and 
stammer like a culprit. It is provoking. 

Dart. You profess a violent detestation of 
conceit, my shrevv'd Sir ; where, then, is your 
indulgence for modesty .' 

JFalt. You mistake the matter, Dartz. Your 
friend there, has as good a conceit of himself 
as any man : he is not modest but bashful ; a 
weakness too that only besets him in the pre- 
sence of his mistress. By this good fist of 
mine ! it provokes me almost to the cudgelling 
of such an unaccountable ninny. But I 
would cudgel thee, and serve thee too, De 
Bertrand. Take courage ; we have a plot in 
our heads to make a man of thee at last. 



390 



THfc: SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



Dart, (aside, pulling Walt, by the sleeve.) 
Say not a word of tlie plot: his sense of hon- 
our is so delicate, he would recoil at it. 

Jint. A plot, did 3'ou say ? 

JValt. Aye, a kind of a plot ; — that is to say 
What kind of a plot is it Dartz ? 

Dari. Have you forgot your own scheme 
for cheating the virtuoso, when your cabinet 
of antiquities comes to the hammer? 

JValt. By my say! this memory of mine is 
not worth a pinch of tobacco. {Seeing Ani. 
look at his watch.) Art thou going any 
where ? 

Jlnt. No ;— I did think 1 believe I 

shall take a turn on the terrace. 

Dart, (to Ant.) I understand you : take a 
turn in the cabinet of paintings rather; that 
will suit your purpose better. 

Jlnt. May I presume to go there ? 

Walt. Presume, simpleton ! That impudent 
puppy of a Countlords itin her dressing-room. 
Go tliy ways 1 {pushing him off the stage with 
slight anger : Exit Antonia.) That fellow 
])rovokes me ; yet there is something in him 
that goes so near my heart : he is more akin 
to me than his blood entitles him to be : he 
is like a part of myself. 

Dart. Not the least like it. Now that you 
have taught us to speak plainly, I must needs 
say, were he at all like yourself, you would 
disinherit him in the course of a month. 

Walt. You are right, perhaps. — But alas ! 
he would not be much the poorer for being 
disinlicrited by me. O that old fool of a 
brother .' I could flog hina for his poetry ! 

Dart. Have patience, and we may find a 
better way of dealing with him. If we could 
persuade him to disguise himself like a dia- 
mond merchant, and accompany Hovelberg 
when he visits the Countess, he would be 
convinced of the true nature of her regard for 
him. 

Walt. An excellent thought ! This is just 
what was wanting to make our plot really like 
a plot. 

Dart. I'm glad it pleases you at last. Be- 
fore I leave the castle to negociate with my 
friend for his myrmidons, I'll find out the 
Baron, and endeavour to persuade him. 

Walt. Heaven prosper thee ! but return, ere 
thou goest, and let me know the result. 
Dart. Depend upon it. [Exeust severally. 

Scene II. — a room hung with paint- 
ings, AND ENRICHED WITH CARVING 
AND ORNAMENTS, &,C. 

Enter Valdemere and Antonia. 

Vald, Here arc some good paintings, De Ber- 
trand ; if you have any taste for the art, they 
will please you. This Guido on the loft is a 
divine thing. The Magdalen in Count Or- 
rinbcrg's collection was considered as superi- 
or to it ; but I always maintained this to be 
the best painting of the two, and the world 1 



have at last adopted my opinion. I have al- 
ways decidedly thought But you are 

not looking at it. Is there any thing in that 
door to arrest your attention ? The carving 
on it is but indififerent. 

Jlnt. I thought I heard footsteps. She's 
coming. 

Vald. Pooh ! she won't be here this half 
hour ;. so you need not yet take alarm, as if 
an enemy were advancing upon you. 

Jint. You connect the idea of alarm with 
an enemy ; would I had firmness to face 
what I love ! You are a happy man, Valde- 
mere, and a bold one too, most assuredly : 
what would not I give for a little of your hap- 
py self-possession. 

Vald. Aye ; it is an article of some value : 
he who can't possess himself, must not ex- 
pect to possess his mistress. 

Jlnt. A very specious maxim this, from a 
young fellow's mouth with the manliness of 
well-curled wiskers to support it : yet I have 
seen the embarrassment of a diffident charac- 
ter plead its own cause more effectually than 
the eloquence of a brazen-borrowed Barrister. 
At least I have always felt it have more pow- 
er over me. 

Vald. That is natural enough ; it is a com- 
mon selfish sympathy : one thief pities ano- 
ther when the rope is round his neck. Feel- 
ing for others is the consequence of our own 
imperfections ; this is a known truth. 

Jlnt. Establish it if you can, Valdemere, 
for it will go well nigh to prove you immacu- 
late. 

Vald. How far soever I may be from tliat 
degree of perfection, jealousy at least is not 
one of my faults, since I have introduced a 
rival into the apartments of my mistress, 
where he had not the courage to venture alone, 
and am also pointing out to him what he has 
not discovered for himself, that her picture is 
now before his eyes. {Pointing to a picture.) 
Jlnt. {looking up to it eagerly.) It is some- 
what like. 

Vald. She sat for it at my request : no one 
else could prevail on her. The painter knew 
my taste in these matters, and has taken won- 
derful pains with it. 

Jlnt. {sighing.) You have indeed been hon- 
oured. 

Vald. He has made the eyes to look upon 
you with such expression. 

jlnt. Think you so ? To me he appears to 
have failed in this respect ; or perhaps it is 
because any semblance of eyes which I can 
thus stedfastly look upon, are not to me the 
eyes of Livia. 

Vald. I did not suspect you to be so fastid- 
ious. 

Jlnt. Not so neither. But surely eyes of 
such vivid expression should never be painted 
as looking at the spectator; for what pencil 
in the world can produce the ofitjct he de- 
mands .'' They should be directed to some 
other object ; and then ho sees them as he 
has been accustomed to see them. 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



391 



Enter Litia behind them. 

Vald. Perhaps you are right : you talk like 
a connoisseur on tJie subject. 

Liv. I come in good time then ; for con- 
noisseur or not, to hear De Bertrand talk at 
all is a very lucky adventure. You have 
wronged us much, Baron, to keep us so long 
ignorant of your taste for the fine arts. 

.Int. {embarrassed.) Madam, I am much hon- 
oured. I am very little {mumblmg 

words in a confused way that are not heard.) 
I ain very much obliged to you. 

Liv. You are grateful for slight obligations. 
But you are looking at my picture,! see, 
which was painted two years ago at the re- 
quest of a good old uncle of mine ; pray give 
me your opinion of it. 

Jlnt. It appears it is very charming. I 

is that is, I suppose, it is very finely paint- 
ed. 

Liv. It is reckon'd so : and it certainly does 
more than justice to the original. (Ant. hesi- 
tates as if lie would speak hut remains silent.) 
You are of my opinion, I perceive, or at least 
too well bred to contradict me. Confess it 
freely : you are of my opinion. 

Jlnt. O entirely. Madam. 

Liv. You flatter me exceedingly. 

^nt. I meant it in simple sincerity. 

Liv. O, sincere enough, I doubt not. 

Vald. And surely you will not question its 
simplicity. 

Liv. (to Vald., turning from Ant. with pity 
and contempt.) Don't let us be too hard upon 
him. Pray look at that picture of my great 
Aunt who was a celebrated beauty. 

Vald. (gazing with affected admiration at 
LWisl's picture.) I have no eyes for any other 
beauty than what 1 now gaze upon. 

Liv. And do you indeed admire this picture 
so much ? 

Vald. The faintest resemblance of its fair 
original is fascinating. Yet methinks the 
painter has failed in the expression of the eyes. 
But any eyes indeed that 1 can look thus sted- 
fastly upon, are not to me the eyes of Livia. 

Liv. Ah ! these are in truth the words of a 
too partial friend. 

Vald. Words from the heart, divine Livia, 
will tell from whence they came. (They both 
tcalk to the bottom of the stage, speaking in 
dumh-sheiD, tchile Ant. remains in the front.) 

Jlnt. (aside.) With my own words he woos 
her, and before my face too. — Matchless im- 
pudence! — And such a man as this pleases 
Livia ! — He whispers in her ear, and she 
smiles. — My heart sickens at it. — I'll look no 
more, lest I become envious and revengeful, 
and hateful to myself —O Nature ! hast thou 
made me of such poor stuff as this .' 

Vald. (turning round from the bottom of the 
stage.) Ha, De^Bertrand ! are you declaim- 
ing.' Some speech of a tragedy, I suppose, 
from the vehemence of your gesture. Pray 
let Livia hear you : she is partial, you know, 
to every thing you do, and finda every exhi-| 



bition you make before her particularly amu- 
sing. 

Jlnt. (sternly.) Come nearer to me. Sir; the 
first part of my speech is for your private ear. 
— Come nearer. 

Liv. Pray go to him : by the tone of his 
voice he personates some tyrant, and must be 
obeyed. 

^Ijit. Yes, Sir, I must be obeyed. (Vald. 
shuffles up to himumcillingly, and Ant. speaks 
in his ear.) Take no more impertinent liber- 
ties with me in this lady's presence, or be 
prepared to justify them elsewhere. 
[Exit, looking at Vald. sternly, who remains 

silent. 

Liv. (advancing to the front.) What is the 
matter, Count ? 

Vald. Nothing — nothing at all. 

Liv. Nay something unpleasant has passed 
between you. 

Vald. I believe I did wrong : I should have 
treated him more gently. But the strange- 
ness of his behaviour obliged me to use threat- 
ening words, upon which he withdrew, and 
chose not to understand them. 

Liv. How ill one judges then by dumb- 
shew of what passes at a distance. 

Vald. 1 am always calm on these occasions, 
while he assumes the fierceness of a boaster. 

Liv. But you will not call him out for such 
a trifle. 

Vald. Not for the world, divine creature, 
if it give you uneasiness. 

Liv. How gentle you are ! The brave are 
always so. 

Vald. How can I be otherwise with such an 
angel to prompt me .' No ; the braggard may 
live in safety for me ; I will not harm one hair 
of his head. 

Liv. I thank you, dear Valdemere ! and 
now to recompense your goodness, I'll shew 
the beautiful gem I promised you : follow me. 

Vald. ¥es, bewitching Maid ! to the world's 
end, to the bottom of the ocean, to the can- 
non's brazen mouth, I would follow thee. 

[EXEL'NT. 

Scene III. — the countess's deessing 

ROOM. 

She enters from an inner Chamber Vvith a small 
shagreen Case in her hand, followed by Jean- 
ETTA, carrying a Casket which she sets upon 
a Table. 

Countess. Jeanetta ! let me take a last look 
of those dear things before I part with them 
for ever. 

Jean. I'm sure, my lady, they are so hand- 
some, and you look so handsome when you 
wear them, it would go to my heart to part 
with them. 

Countess. But my dear boy must have 
money, Jeanetta, and I have been expensive 
myself. (Opens the casket, and looks at the 
jewels.) My diamonds, my pearls, my rubies, 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



my darlings ! for llie sake of a still greater 
darling I must part with you all. 

Jam. But if 1 might presume to speak, my 
lady ; don't you indulge the young Count 
too much in extravagance.'' 

Countess. O no, Jeanetta ; I doat upon him ; 
it \'i t'liis amiable weakness of character which 
all the world remarks and admires in me. 
And he loves me entirely too ; he would sac- 
rifice his life for my sake. 

Jean. He'll sacrifice nothing else, however ; 
for he never gives up the smallest convenience 
of his own to oblige you. 

Cuuntcss. Small things are of no conse- 
quence : he would give up for me, I am con- 
fident, tlie thing most dear to his heart : and 
for him — to see him lord of tiiis castle and its 
domains, and occupying in society the bril- 
liant place that becomes him, I would — what 
would I not sacrifice ! 

Jean. Were he to live on the fortune he has, 
and marry where he is attach'd, he might 
perhaps be happier. 

Countess. Happier ! Were he mean enough 
to be happy so — contemptible thought ! — I 
would see him in his grave rather. — But no 
moreoftliis: have you seen Hovelberg .? You 
say he is waitinir below. 

Jeu7i. Yes, Madam, and a friend with him ; 
an Armenian Jew-merchant, who will, he 
sa3's, go halves in his purchases, and enable 
him to give you a better price for the jewels, 
as he is himself rather low in cash at present. 

Countess. Well; I'll object to neither Jew 
nor Infidel that puts money into my pocket. 
(Holding up a ruby necklace.) This should 
fetch something considerable. 

Jean. Ola, Madam! you won't part with 
that surely : your neck is like alabaster under 
it. Did you but know how they admired you 
at Prince Dormach's the last time you wore 
it. — I would sell the very gown from my back 
ere I parted with it. 

Countess. So they admired me at Prince 
Dormach's then ? 

Jean. O dear, my lady ! the Prince's valet 
told me, though two young beauties from 
Brussels were there, nobody spoke of any one 
but you. 

Countess. Well; to please thee, then, I'll 
keep it. 

Jean. La ! here is a little emerald ring, my 
lady ; those brokers will despise such a trifle, 
and give you a mere nothmg for it — La, who 
would think it I it fits my fingers to a hair. 
It must be a mort too large for your delicate 
hand. 

Countess. Keep it for thyself then, since 
it fits thee. He was a great fool who gave it 
inc, and had it made of that awkward size. 

Jean. I thank yoii, my lady ; 1 wish you 
would give me every thing in this precious 
casket that has not been the gift of a sage. 

Coantcss. Thou art right, child It would 
put many a hundred louis-d'ors into thy 
pocket, and leave scarcely a marverdi for my- 
self — A rich Knight of Malta gave me these 



(holding up a striiig of pearls,) whose bandy 
legs were trick'd out most delicately in fine- 
clocked hose of the nicest and richest era- 
broidery. Rest his soul ! I made as much of 
those legs as the hosier did. 

Jean. I doubt it not, Madam, and deserved 
what you earned full as well. 

Countess, (looking again at her pearls.) 
There is not a flaw in any of them. 

Jean. Aye ; commend me to such legs ! 
had they been straighter, the pearls had been 
worse. 

Countess. This amber box with brilliants I 
had from an old croaking Marquis, who pes- 
tered every music room in the principality to 
the day of his death, with notes that would 
have frightened a peacock. As long as he 
sang, poor man ! I considered myself as hav- 
ing a salary on the musical establishment at 
the rate of two hundred ducats per month. 

Jean. Aye, God send that all the old Mar- 
quises in these parts, would croak for us at 
this rate. 

Countess. I have no reason to complain : 
my present friend bleeds as freely as any of 
his predecessors. 

Jean. So ho should, my Lady. Such non- 
sense as he writes ought not to be praised for 
a trifle. I would not do it, I'm sure. 

Countess. Dost thou ever praise then for 
profit ? 

Jean. To be honest with you. Madam, I 
have done it, as who has not .-' But never since 
I entered your ladyship's service ; for why 
should you reward me for praising you, when 
all the world does it for nothing .' — No, no, 
my Lady ; you are too wise for tliat. 

Countess. There is somebody at the door. 

Jean. It is liovelberg. 

Countess. Open then, but let nobody else 
in. 

(Jean opens the door, and Hovelberg enters, 
foUoioed by Baron Baurchel, disguised as an 
JirmcnianJeio.) 

Countess. I am happy to see you, dear 
Hovelberg ; and this Gentleman also, (curtesy- 
ing to the Bar.) I know it is only a friend 
whom we may trust, that you would introduce 
to me on the present occasion. 

Hov. To be sure, Madam : a friend we may 
depend on. (Drawing Countess aside, and 
speaking in her ear.) A man of few words : 
better to do in this quarter, than this. (Point- 
ing first to his pocket, and then to his head.) 
And that is a good man, you know, to be well 
with. 

Countess. O the best stuff in the world for 
making a friend of. (Returning to the Bar.) 
Sir, I liave the highest regard and esteem for 
you. 

Bar. (in a feigned voice.) On vatch account, 
Madam ? 

Countess. O good Sir ! on every account. 

Bar. You lov'sh not my religion .'' 

Countess. I respect and reverence it pro- 
foundly. 

Bar. You lov'sh not my pershon ? 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



393 



Countess. It is interesting and engaging, 
most assuredly. 

Bar. Nobody telsh me she before. 

Countess. Because the world is full of en- 
vious people, who will not tell you truths that 
are agreeable. 

Bar. {nodding assent.) Now I understanL 

Countess. Yes, dear Sir ; you must do so ; 
your understanding is unquestionable. {Look- 
ing archly to Hovel.) And now, Gentlemen, 
do me the honour to be seated, and examine 
tliese jewels attentively. 

Hov. We would rather stand, if you'll per- 
mit us. 

Countess, {aside to Hovel., while the Baron 
examines the jewels.) My dear Hovelberg, be 
liberal; for the sum I want is a large one, 
and those jewels would procure it for me any 
where ; only, regarding you as my friend, 
1 gave you the first offer. — But your friend, 
methinks, examines every thing with great 
curiosity. 

Hov. Yes, poor man ! he likes to appear as 
knowing as he can : this is but natural, you 
know, when one is deficient in the upper de- 
partment. — But he'll pay like a Prince, if you 
flatter and amuse him. 

Bar. Vasht fine stones ! Vasht pretty or- 
naments ! (To Countess.) You dishposhe 
of all deshe .' 

Countess. Yes, every thing. 

Bar. Dere be gifshhere, no doubt, from.de 
dear friensh. 

Hov. Or some favoured lover, perhaps. 

Countess, (sighing affectedly.) Perhaps so; 
but I must part with them all. 

Bar. {aside to Hov.) Nay, she has some 
tenderness for me : put her not to too severe 
a trial. 

Hov. (aside.) We shall see. 

Bar. (returning to Countess.) You be wo- 
man ; and all womansh have de affections for 
some one lover or frient. 

Countess. O how good and amiable and 
considerate you are ! I have indeed a heart 
formed for tenderness. 

Bar. {draicing Hovel aside again.) She 
does love me, Hovelberg : tempt her not with 
an extravagant price for the (licture. 

Hov. (aside.) I'll take a better way of man- 
aging it. (Returning to the Countess.) My 
Friend desires me to say. Madam, that, if there 
is any thing here you particularly value, he'll 
advance you money upon it, which you may 
pay at your leisure, and you shall preserve 
it. 

Countess, {to Baron.) How generous you 
are, my dear Sir I Yes ; there is one thing I 
would keep. 

Bar. (eagerly.) One ting — dere be one ting ; 
iish picture, perhaps. 

Countess. This ruby necklace. 

Bar. You sell tish picture, den .' 

Countess. To be sure, if you'll purchase it. 

Hov. The diamonds are valuable, indeed; 
but you will not sell the painting ? 
49 



Countess. That will depend on the price 
you offer for it. 

Hov. Being a portrait, it is of no value at 
all, but to those who have a regard for the 
original. 

Jean. And what part of the world do they 
live in, Mr. Hovelberg .•' Can you find them 
out any where ? 

Countess. Nay, peace, Jeanetta. — As a por- 
trait, indeed, it is of no value to any body, 
but, as a characteristic old head, it should 
fetch a good price. (Shewing it to Baron.) 
Observe, my dear Sir, that air of conceit and 
absurdity over the whole figure : to those who 
have a taste for the whimsical and ridiculous, 
it would be invaluable. Don't you perceive 
it.? 

Bar. Not very sure. 

Countess. Not sure ! Look at it again. See 
how the eyes are turned languishingly aside, 
as if he were repeating, " Dear gentle idol of 
a heart too fond." (Mimicking the Baron's 
natural voice.) 

Hov. Ha, ha, ha ! Your mimickry is ex- 
cellent. Countess. Is it hot. Friend Johna- 
dab ? 

Bar. O, vasht comical. 

Hov. (aside to him.) She has a good talent. 

Bar. (aside.) Shrewd witch ! The words 
of my last sonnet, indeed; but I did not re- 
peat them so. 

Hov. (aloud.) Though you are an admira- 
ble mimick. Madam, my Friend Johnadab 
does not think your imitation of the Baron, 
entirely correct. 

Countess, {alarmed.) He knows the Baron, 
then ; I have been very imprudent — But pray 
don't suppose I meant any disrespect to the 
worthy Baron, whom I esteem very much. 

Bar. O vasht much ! 

Hov. Be not uneasy. Madam ; my Fiiend 
will be secret, and loves a joke mightily. 

Countess. I'll trust, then, to his honour: 
and since he does not like my imitation of the 
Baron, he shall have it from one who does it 
better than I. Jeanetta, amuse this worthy 
gentleman by repeating the Baron's last son- 
net. 

Jean. Nay, my Lady, you make me do it so 
often, I'm tired of taking him off. 

Countess. Do as you are bid. Child. 

Jean^ " Dear gentle idol of a heart too fond, 
" Why doth that eye of sweetest sym- 
pathy- " 

Hov. Ha, ha, ha ! Excellent! 

Bar. (off his guard.) By Heaven, this is 
too bad ! Your servants taught to turn me 
into ridicule ! 

Countess, (starting.) How's this.' Mercy on 
me ! 

Hov. Be not alarmed, Countess ; I thought 
he would surprise you. My friend is the best 
mimick in Europe. 

Countess. I can scarcely recover my sur- 
prise. (To Baron.) My dear Sir, I cannot 
praise you enough. You have a wonderful 



394 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



talent. The Baron's own mouth could not 
utter his voice more perfectly than yours. 

Bar. (pulling off kis cap and beard.) No, 
Madam, not easily. (Jean, shrieks out and 
the Countess stands in stupid amazement.) 
This disguise, Madam, has procured for me a 
specimen of the amiable dispositions of a heart 
formed for tenderness, with a sample of your 
talents for mimickry into the bargain ; and so 
I wish you good day, with thanks for my 
morning's amusement. 

Countess, (recovering herself.) Ha, ha, ha ! 
You understand mumming very well. Baron, 
but I still better. I acted my part well. 

Bar. Belter than well, Madam : it was 
the counter-part of my enacting the Baron. 

Jean. Indeed, dear Baron, the Countess 
knew it was you, and so did I too. Indeed, 
indeed we did. I'm sure it is a very good 
joke : I wonder we don't laugh more at it 
than we do. 

Bar. Be quiet, subordinate Imp of this arch 
Tempter ! My thraldom is at an end ; and all 
the jewels in that shameful heap were not too 
great a price for such emancipation. (Bow- 
ing very loxo to Countess.) Adieu most ami- 
able, most sentimental, most disinterested of 
women ! [Exit. 

Countess. Hovelberg, you have betrayed 
me. 

Hov. How so. Madam .' You told me your- 
self you was the most sincere woman in the 
world ; the Baron doubted your regard for 
him ; how could I then dissuade him from 
putting it to the proof, unless I had doubted 
your word. Madam .'' An insult you could 
never have pardoned. 

Countess. What, you laugh at me, too, you 
villain ! (Exit Hovel.) Oh ! I am ruined, 
derided and betrayed ! (Throics herself into 
a chair, covering her facb icith her hand, while 
Jeanetta endeavours to comfort her.) 

Jean. Be not so cast down, my Lady, there 
are more than one rich fool in the world, and 
you have a good knack at finding them out. 

Countess. O, that 1 should have been so 
unguarded I That I should never have sus- 
pected ! 

Jean. Aye, with his vasht this, and his 
vasht that : it was, as he said, vasht comical 
that we did not. 

Countess. Bring not his detested words 
again to my ears ; I can't endure the sound 
of them. 

Enter Valdemere. 

Vald. Well, Madam, you can answer my 
demands now, I hope : Hovelberg has been 
with you. Money, money, my dear mother ! 
(Holding out his hand.) There is a fair broad 
palm to receive it; and here (kissing her 
hand roaxingly) is a sweet little hand to be- 
stow it. 

Countess, (pushing him away sternly.) Thy 
inconsiderate prodigality has been most disas- 
trous. Had'st thou been less thoughtless, less 



profuse — a small portion of prudence and 
economy would have made us independent of 
every dotard's humour. 

Vald. Notable virtues indeed. Madam ; but 
where was I to learn them, pray .■' Did you 
ever before recommend them to me, by either 
precept or example .' Prudence ! Economy ! 
What has befallen you .'' I'm sure there is 
something wrong, when such words come 
from your lips. — Ha! in tears, too! Hovel- 
berg has brought no money then .' 

Countess. No, no, Barbarian .' He has ru- 
ined me. 

Vald. How so ? 

Countess. I cannot tell thee ; it would suf- 
focate me. 

Jean. La, Count! My Lady may well 
call him Barbarian. He brought the old 
Baron with him to purchase the jewels, dis- 
guised like an Armenian Jew ; and when bar- 
gaining with her for his own picture, my 
Lady said something of the original not much 
to his liking, and so the old fool tore off his 
disguise and bounced out of the room in a 
great passion. 

Vald. By my faith, this is unlucky ! 1 de- 
pended on touching 500 louis d'ors immedi- 
ately. 

Countess. Thinking only of yourself still, 
when you may well guess how I am distressed. 
— I shall never again find such a liberal old 
cully as he. 

Vald. Yes you will, Mother : more readily 
than I shall find the 500 louis. — I owe half 
that sum to Count PugstofF, for losses at the 
billiard table ; all the velvet and embroidery, 
the defunct suits of two passing years haunt 
me wherever I go, in the form of unmannerly 
tailors : and, besides all this, there is a sweet 
pretty Arabian in the stables of Huckston, my 
jockey, that I am dying to be master of — By 
my faith, it is very hard ! Had you no suspi- 
cion .'' How came you to be so much oflTyour 
guard .'' 

Countess. I believe it was fated to be so, 
and therefore I was blinded for the moment. 
I dreamt last night that I had but one tooth 
in my head, and it dropped on the ground at 
my feet. This, it is said, betokens the loss of 
a friend by death, and 1 trembled for thee, 
my child ; but now, too surely, my dream is 
explained and accomplished. 

Vald. And, methinks, you would have pre- 
ferred the first interpretation. 

Countess. Ah ! ungrateful Boy ! You know 
too well how I have doated on you. 

Vald. I do know too well : it has done me 
little good, I fear. 

Countess. It has done me little good, I'm 
sure, since this is all the gratitude thou hast. 
I should never, but for thee, have become the 
flatterer of those I despise, to amass those 
odious jewels. 

Vald. Ha ! the jewels are still here then I 
I shall have my louis' still. Thank you, dear 
Mother, that you did not part with them, at 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



395 



least. (Kissing her hand, hastily, and running 
to the table.) Ill soon dispose of them all. t 

Conyitcss. (running after him.) No, no \ not 
so fast, Valdemere : thou wilt not take them 
all. Haste thee, Jeanetta, and save some of 
them. 

(They all scramble round the table for the jew- 
els, and the scene closes.) 



ACT III. 
Scene I. — before the gate of the 

CASTLE. 

Enter Nina, who crossesthe Stage timidly, stop- 
ping once or twice, and then, with hesitation, 
giving a gentle knock at the gate. Enter Por- 
ter from the gate, which he opens. 

Porter, (after waiting to hear her speak.) 
What do you want, young woman .' Did 
you only knock for amusement? 

A~in. No, Sir ; is Count Valdemere in the 
castle .'' I would speak with him, if he is at 
leisure. 

Port. He is in the castle ; but as to speak- 
ing with him, no man, of less consequence 
than his valet, can answer that question. 

Enter Lorimore, by the opposite side. 

Here he is. You come opportunely, Mr. 
Lorimore ; this young person would speak 
with your Master. 

Lor. (aside.) O, Nina, 1 see. (Aloud.) How 
do you do, my pretty Nina ^ You can't speak 
witii my Master, indeed ; but you may speak 
with the next most agreeable personage in 
these parts, my Master's man, as long as you 
please ; and that, be assured, is a far better 
thing for your purpose, my Princess. 

JS'in. Dare you insult me ! You durst not 
once have done it. — I do not ask then to see 
him : but give him this letter. 

Lor. (taking the letter.) Do you wish tliis 
precious piece to be read, Cliild, or to be 
burnt ? 

Nin. Why ask that .' To be read, certainly. 

Lor. 1 must not give it to the Count, then, 
but keep it to myself: and if you'll just al- 
low me to make the slight alteration of put- 
ting Lorimore the valet for Valdemere the 
master, as I read, it will be a very pretty, rea- 
sonable letter, and one that may advance your 
honour withal. 

Kin. Audacious Coxcomb ! Give it me 
again. (Snatches the letter from him, and 
turns away.) 

Lor. She is as proud as that little devil of 
a Page, her brother. 

(Enter Page behind from the gate.) 
Page. The more devil he be, the fitter 
company for you. Whom spoke you to.' 

(Seeing Nina.) Oh, oh ! Is Nina here ? 

Nina . Nina ! (Running after her.) 



JVin. (returning.) My dear Theodore, is it 
thee .' I did not ask for thee, lest thou 
should'st chide me for coming to the cas- 
tle. 

Page. I won't chide, but I'm sorry to see 
thee here. Fie, woman ! thou art the daugh- 
ter of as brave an Officer, though a poor one, 
as any in the service ; art thou not ashamed 
to come, thus meanly, after a lover who de- 
spises thee .'' 

J\m. He promised to marry me. 

Page. He promised a fiddle-stick I Poor 
deluded simpleton 1 

Mn. Ah, dost thou chide me, boy as thou 
art.' 

Page. Who is there to chide thee now, 
when both our parents are dead ? But as they 
would have done, so do I, Sister ; I chide thee, 
and love thee too. — Go now ; return to the 
good woman from whose house thou hast 
stolen away, and I'll buy thee a new gown 
as soon as my quarter's salary is paid me. 

JVin. Silly child, what care I for a new 
gown ? But if thou hast any pity for me, 
give this letter to thy master. 

Page. I will, I will : but go thy ways now ; 
there is a gentleman coming. And do, dear 
Nina, return no more to the castle till I send 
thee word. Good be with thee, poor simple- 
ton ! 
[Exit Nina, and enter Dartz by the opposite 

side. 

Dart. Is it thy sister thou hast parted from ? 
I met her in the wood this morning ; she need 
not avoid me now. 

Page. Let her go. Sir ; the farther she is 
from the castle the better. 

Dart. Thou hast a letter in thy hand. 

Page. Yes, Sir. 

Dart. Which thou art to give to the Count. 

Page. No, Sir; I'll see him choked first. 
(Tearing the letter.) 

Dart. Nay, see what it contains ere thou 
destroyest it. 

Page, (putting it together again and read- 
ing it.) Only upbraiding his unkindness, and 
stuff of that sort, with some nonsense about a 
dream she has had, which makes her afraid 
she shall never see him again. 

Dart. Let me look. (After reading it.) 
This letter may be useful. Come with me, 
my little friend ; and we'll devise a way of 
revenging thy sister on her cruel seducer. 

Page. Will you.' I'll worship you like a 
saint of the calendar if you do this. 

Dart, (considering.) Is not your master 
somewhat superstitious.' 

Page. Marry is he ! but mightily afraid to 
be thought so. He laughed at me when the 
bad fever prevailed for wearing a charm on 
my breast against infection ; but the very 
next night, when he went to bed, what should 
drop out, think you, as he opened his vest, 
but the very same charm which he had pro- 
cured immediately, and worn with such se- 
crecy, that even Valet Lorimore knew noth- 
ing of the matter. 



396 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDTt, 



Dart. This is good; come with me, and I'll 
instruct thee what to do with thy letter. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene II. 

ROOM. 



-valdemere's dressing- 



Enter Page treading softly on tiptoe, and look- 
ing about the" Room. 

Parrc. Aye ; the coast is clear, and the 
door of his ciiamber is a-jar ; now is my time. 
(Pulling the torn Utter from his pocket, and 
stamping on the floor as he raises his xoice.) 
There, cursed letter, I'll make an end of thee ! 
Give thee to my master, indeed ! I'll give 
thee to tiie devil first. {Pretending to tern- 
the letter, and sLrcio the pieces about, while 
Valdemere looking from the door of his cham- 
ber, sisals behind him and seizes his hands with 
the remainder of the letter in them.) Mercy 
on me ! is it you, my Lord .'' 

Vald. What art thou doing ? What scares 
thee so .'' What letter is this .■' Let me see it. 

Page. O no, my Lord, I beseech you, for 
your own sake, don't read it. 

Vald. Why should not 1 read it, Boy ? 

Pao-e. Lud, I don't know! you may not 
mind^it, perhaps ; but were any body to send 
such a letter to me, I should be mainly terri- 
fied. To be sure, death comes as they say, at 
his own time, and we can't keep him away, 
though we should hang ourselves ; but one 
don't like to be told beforehand the very year 
or day we are to die, neither. 

Vald. The year and day ! give me the let- 
ter : give it me immediately. {Snatching the 
fragments of the letter from him, and picking 
up a piece or ticofrom the floor, which he puts 
together hastily on a. table near the front of the 
stage.) I can't make it piece any way. 

Page. So much the better, my Lord : don't 
try to do it. 

Vald. It is Nina's hand, I see, but 1 can 
make no sense of it. — Aye, now it will do 
{reading.) " I have been terrified with a dream, 
and fear I shall see you no more." But 
where is the dream ; it is torn off; give it 
me. 

Page. I have it not. 

Vald. Thou liest ! give it me, I say. 

Page. Lud have mercy ! as I tore it off 
just now, your black spaniel ran away with it. 

Vald. No, varlet, that is a sham ; go find 
it ; thou knowest where it is well enough. 

Page. Indeed, my Lord, if it is not in the 
black spaniel's custody it is no where else 
that I know of. 

Vald. {reading^ again.) I fear I shall see 
you no more ! But it may be her own death 
as well as mine, that her dream has foretold ; 
and therefore she may see me no more. 

Page. Very true, you had better think so; 
though it does not often happen that a woman 
is killed at a siege. 

Vald. At a siege ! 



Page. Pest take this hasty tongue of mine ; 
I could bite it off for the tricks it plays me. 

Vald. At a siege ! 

Page. O, never mind it. Sir. It may be 
some lie after all : some wicked invention to 
make you afraid. 

Vald. (sternly.) What sayest thou ? 

Page. O no ! I don't mean afraid ; only 

uneasy as it were no, no ! not uneasy 

neither ; only somewhat as you feel at present, 
my Ijord ; you know best what to call it. 

Vald. At a siege ! 

Page. Dear my Lord ; those words are glu- 
ed to your tongue. 

Vald. {not needing him.) My grandfather 
perished at a siege, and his grandfather also : 
is this fate decreed in our family for alternate 
generations ? {Siiiks into a chair by the table, 
and Page seeing him so much absorbed, comes 
close to him, staring curiously in his face.) 

Vald. Take thy varlet's face out of my 
sight ; why art thou so near me .-* Leave the 
room, I say. [Exit Page. 

{Risi7ig and pacing to and fro as he speaks 
to himself) 

A hundred dreams prove false for one that 
prefigures any real event. — It should not have 
been, however : my mother should have found 
for me some other occupation than a military 

life. Quit it .? No ; I can't do that: the 

world would cry out upon me ; Livia would 
despise me. — 'Tis a strange thing that women, 
who can't fight themselves, should so eagerly 

push us to the work.^ Pooh ! am 1 a fool 

that it seizes me thus.'' 1 would this boy, 

however, had really destroyed the letter. 

Enter Dabtz, looking at Vald; some time be- 
fore he speaks. 

Dart. {asid.e.)This will do; it is working with 
him. {Jlloud, advancing.) My dear Count; — 
but don't start; 1 bring no bad tidings ; I 
come to beg a favour of you. 

Vald. {recovering himself.) Say you are 
come to oblige me. 

Dart. I thank you, Valdemere : but faith 
I'm ashamed to mention it; you will laugh 
at me for being so superstitious. 

Vahl. Ha ! somebody has been dreaming 
about you too. 

Dart. Should you deem me very credulous 
if a thing of this nature had power to disturb 
me .'' 

Vald. 'Tis even so ; they have been dream- 
ing all over the house. Ha, ha, ha ! And 
thou art really uneasy about such flummery 
as this: ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha ! This is ad- 
mirable — delightful ! — ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Dart. Be more moderate with your merri- 
ment : your tears and your laughter come 
so strangely together, one would take you 
for an hysterical girl. 

Vald.' I can't choose but laugh at your 
dreamers ; ha, ha, ha ! 

Dart. Don't laugh at me then ; for I'm nei- 
ther a dreamer, or believer in dreams. 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDY. 



397 



Vald. {becoming serious at once.) No ; what 
is it then ? 

Dart. I'm ahnost ashamed to tell you, yet 
I'll throw myself on your mercy and do it. — 
•I am in love, then, and fearful of the fortunes 
of war ; for you know we must expect sharp 
fighting this ensuing campaign. 

Vald. ( ruefully.) You think so? 

Dart. I'm certain of it. Now, though I 
have no faith in dreams, i must own I have 
eome in fortune-tellers ; and there is a famous 
one just come to the castle, whom I would 
gladly consult. Will you permit me. to bring 
him to your inner apartment there ; that he 
may tell me of my future destiny, whatever 
his art reveal to him .'' Laugh as you please, 
but refuse me not this favour ; for there is no 
other room in the castle where I can meet 
him, secure from interruption. 

Fald. {smiting affectedly.) And thou art 
really in earnest with this folly ? 

Dart. When you have heard the wonder- 
ful things this wizard has foretold, you will 
not call it folly. 

Vald. Can'st thou tell me any of them ? 

Dart. Take a turn with me on the terrace, 
and thou shalt hear things that will astonish 
thee. 

Vald. Ha, ha ! it is whimsical to see thee 
so serious. Such stories are pleasant amuse- 
ment : I'll attend thee most willingly. 

[ESEONT. 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — a small room in valde- 
mere's apartments; baron bauhchel 
IS discovered in the disguise of 
a fortune-teller with dartz 
standing by him, adjusting part 
of his dress. 

Dart. 'Twill do well enough. Stand ma- 
jestically by this great chair, with your wors- 
ted robe thrown over the arm of it ; it will 
spread out your figure, and make it more im- 
posing. — Bravo ! You assume the astrologi- 
cal dignity to admiration ; the rolling of your 
eyes under that black hood almost appals me. 
Be as good an astrologer as you have been an 
Armenian Jew, Baron, and we shall be tri- 
umphant. 

Bar. As good, Dartz ! If I am not a dolt, I 
shall be belter : for there is no danger of los- 
ing my temper now ; and being fairly engag- 
ed in it, melliinks I could assume as many 
shapes as Proteus, to be revenged on this 
false Hyena and her detestable cub. 

Dart. Aye, that is your true spirit. But I 
must leave you now, and wait in the anti- 
room for the Count, who will be here present- 
ly. [Exit. 

Bar. {after musing some time.) Superlative 
baseness and ingratitude ! That sonnet, of all 



the sonnets I ever wrote, is the most exqui- 
sitely feeling and tender. — When I read it to 
her, she wept. — Were her tears feigned r — I 
can't believe it. — Assassins will weep at a 
high-wrought scene of tragedy, and cut the au- 
thor's throat when it is over. Even so. — It 

suited her purposes better to laugh at my 
verseSjthan acknowledge their genuine eftect ; 
and so, forgetting every kindness she owed 

me, O the detestable worlding 1 I'll' 

Hush, hush, hush ! they are coming. 

Re-enter Dartz, followed by Valedmeke, 
who walks shrinkingly behind, peeping past his 
shoulder to the Baron, who slightly inclines 
his body, putting his hand with great solemnity 
three times to his forehead. 

Dart, (aside to Vald. after a pause.) Faith, 
Valdemere, I dare scarcely speak to him ; 
'tis well you are with me ; will you speak to 
him .'' 

Vald. No ; 'tis your own affair ; stand to it 
yourself. 

Dart, {aloud.) Learned and glRod Mortal, 
we come to thee. 

Vald. {aside, jogging his arm.) Don't say 
we — 'tis your own affair enth'ely. 

Dart. 'Well, I should say, gifted Sage, not 
loe but / come to thee, to know what tbrtune 
is abiding me in this up-and-down world. I 
am a lover and a soldier, and liable, as both, to 
great vicissitudes. 

Bar. Thou say'st truly, my Son. And 
who is this young man so much wiser than 
thyself, who does not desire to look into futu- 
rity ? 

Dart. It is my friend. 

Bar. {after examining the faces of both for 
some time.) Say more than friend. 

Dart. How so .'' 

Bar. {still continuing to gaze alternately at 
them.) "Tis very wonderful : in all the years 
of my occult experience, I never met the like 
before, but once. 

Vald. {aside to Dart.) What does he mean ? 
Ask him, Man. 

. Dart. You never met the like but once ! 
What mean you, Father.'' 

Bar. (ansicers not, but continues to look at 
them, tchile Vald., unable to bear it longer, 
shrinks again hchind Dart.) Shrink not 
back, young Man : my eyes make not the 
fate they see, and cannot do you harm. — 'Tis 
wonderful ! There ia not in your tv\^o faces 
one trait of resemblance, yet your fortunes 
in the self-same mould are cast : ye are in 
fate twin-brothers. 

Bart. Indeed ! then my friend need only 
listen to my fortune, and he'll have his own 
into the bargain. 

Bar. Nay, nay, my Sons, be advised, and 
inquire not into futurity. They are the hap- 
piest men, v/ho have fewest dealings v/ith 
such miserable beings as myself. Beings 
who are compelled to know tlie impending 
evils of hapless humanity without the povi^er 



398 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



of averting them. Be advised, and suppress 
unprotitable curiosity. 

Dart. By my lay, Sanre ! I cannot suppress 
it. 

Bar. Then let your friend go. He is wise 
enough not to wish to know his future fate, 
and 1 have already said, you are in this twin- 
brothers. 

Dart. Retire then, Valdemere. 

P'ald. {agitated and irresolute.) I had better, 

perhaps. Yet there is within me a strange 

and perverse craving 1 will retire {going to 

the duur, and stopping short.) Live in fearful 
ignorance, fancying evils that may never be I 
'T were better to know all at once. {Returning.) 
Is it our general fortunes only, or is there some 
particular circumstance of our fate, now pres- 
ent to your mind, of which you advise us to 
be ignorant .'' 

Bar. There is 

J'ald. {]mlli7ig Dart, bij the arm.) Come away, 
come away ; don't hear it. 

Dart. I am bound by some spell; I must 
stay to hear it. 

Vidd. I am certainly bound also j I know 
not how it is ; I must hear it too. 

Bar. Be it as you will. (■'iftcr loriting 
characters on a table, zcith other mummeries.) 
Propose your questions. 

Dan. The name, age and quality, of her 
who is my love. (Bar. writes again.) The 
initials of her name I protest, and her age to 
a day, nineteen years and a half. And her 
quality, good Father ? 

Bar. Only daughter and heiress of an emi- 
nent Dutch butter-dealer. 

Dart. Nay, you are scarcely right there. 
Sage ; you might at least have called him 
Burgo-master. — But let it pass. She loves 
me, I hope. (Bar. nods.) I knew it. And 
now let me know if she shall ever be my wife ; 
and how many children we shall have. 

raid, {aside to Dart.) Deuce take wife and 
children too ! What is all this drivling for .-" 

Dart, {aside to him.) 1 thought you were in 
love as well as myself. 

Vald. So I am ; but be satisfied that she 
loves you, and pass on to things of deeper im- 
port. 

Dart, (aside.) Can any thing be of deeper 
import ? {Jlloud.) I should like very well, 
gifted Father, to have two or three black 
haired burly knaves, and a little fair damsel to 
play with. 

I'ald. {aside to Dart.) Would they were 
a^l drowned in a horse-pond ! Look how rue- 
fully the Sage shakes his head at thee : wife 
or ciiildren thou wilt never have. 

Dart. Shall I never be married. Father.'' 
What shall prevent it.' 

Bar. Death. 

Dart. SJiall 1 lose her.' {Turning to Vald.^ 
Do you not tremble for Livia.' 

Vatd. Is it her deatli ^ Did he say so .' Ask 
him. 

Bar. Death will prevent it. — Let me leave 
you. 



Vald. {seizing the Baron's robe.) Whose 
death .' Whose death .' Is it only the Lady's .' 

Bar. Nay, do not detain me. There is a 
deep depression on niy mind. Good-night to 
you ! I'll tell you the remainder when you 
are better prepared to hear it. 

Dart. No, no ! the present time is the best. 

Vald. {in a feeble voice.) You had better let 
him go. 

Dart, (catching hold of the Bar.) You must 
not leave us in this tremendous uncertainty. 
Whose death shall prevent my marriage .' 

Bar. Let me examine, then. Stretchout 
your hand. (Dartz holds out his hand, and 
Vald. involuntarily does the same, but draws 
it back again, as Bar. begins to inspect it.) 
Nay, don't draw back your hand : I nmst 
examine both palms to see if the line of death 
be there. 

Dart. The line of death must be on every 
man's hand. 

Bar. But if it be early or impending death, 
the waving of the shroud will lie across it. 
(Vald. shudders and turns aicay his head, and 
the Bar., after looking at both their hands, 
starts back from them, and shakes his head 
piteously.) 

Dart. What is the matter, Father.' What 
is the matter ? 

Ear. Ask not; I will not tell what 1 know ; 
nothing shall compel me. [Exit hastily. 

Vald. (turning round.) Is he gone .' Went 
he by the door .' 

Dart. What way he went, I know not. He 
has vanished, I believe ; did you hear his steps 
on tlie floor .' 

Vald. I heard nothing. 

Dart, (after a short pause.) How do you 
feel, Count.'' 

Vald. Ha ! do you feel it too .' 

Dart. Feel what .' 

Vald. As if a cold shroud were drawn over 
you. 

Dart. Aye, so I think I do. But never 

mind it : we may still have some good months 
or weeks before us ; let us go to the banquet 
and put a merry face upon it ; a cup of wine 
will warm us again. What, though my gran- 
dam dreamt at my birth that I should be slain 
in a breach, and the weird witch of Cronin- 
berg confirmed it : I'll live and be merry while 
I may. 

Vald. Ha ! and thy grandam had such a 
dream ! 

Dart. Nevermind it: a cup of wine will 
soon cheer us again. 

Vald. Would to God I had one now ! 

Dart. You have no time to take wine at 
present : I hear a bustle below ; they are go- 
ing to the grotto already. — Who's at the 
door .' {Opens the door.) Your valet with your 
new suit for the banquet. I'll leave you 
then. [Exit Dartz, and enter Lorimore with 
a suit of clothes over his arm, followed by 
Page.) 

Lor. I have waited this half hour, my 
Lord, to hear your bell, and the ladies are 



THE S1EX3E: A COMEDY. 



399 



waiting for you to go to the grotto. Look at 
this coat, my Lord : the fashion of it is ex- 
quisite, and it has such an air with it ; there 
is not, besides yourself, a man in the empire 
that would know how to wear it. 

Page. His consummate valet excepted. 

Lor. Hold your peace, Sirrah. Look 

here, my Lord ; if I had not myself given the 
tailor a few hints, he could never have had 
genius enough to finish it in this style. I'd 
give a ducat that the Marquis De Florimel's 

valet could see it. He pretends But you 

don't look at it, my Lord : what is the matter 
with you .' 

Void, {eagerly.) Is any thing the matter .■' 

T^or. Nothing, my Lord ; but the ladies are 
waiting for you to go with them to the grotto : 
won't you be pleased to put on your new 
coat .'' 

Void. Put it on then. (Stretching out his 
arms to put on the coat.) 

Lor. But we must first take off the old coat. 

Vald. Ifirgotthat. (Trying to pull off his 
coat.) It sticks strangely to me : d'off it if 
thou can'st. 

Lor. {after pulling off his coat.) Now, my 
Lord thrust your arm into this beautiful sleeve ; 
the whole beau monde of Paris can't shew you 
its fellow. — That is the wrong arm, my lord. 

Vald. It will do ; it will do. 

Lor. Pardon me, my Lord: your left arm 
won't do for the right sleeve of the coat. 

Vald. {holding out his other arm, and fum- 
bling some time.) There is no hole at all to 
put my arm into. 

Lor. Nay you push your hand past it ; here, 
here. 

Vald. Where sayest thou .' 'Tis mightily 
perplexed. 

Page, {aside to himself.) Either the coat or 
the coat's master is perplexed enough. {Aloud, 
offering him his hat.) You won't go, my Lord, 
without your new hat and plume. 

Vald. Plume i 

Page. Yes, my Lord,. and it will wave so 
handsomely too, for the company walk by 
torch-light in procession. 

Vald. Let them move on, and I'll follow. 

Page. No, they can't go without you, my 
Lord. 

Vald. How is it .' Am I one of the pall- 
bearers .' 

Page. It is not a funeral, my Lord. 

Void. I forgot: the chillness of the night 
has bewildered me. 

Lor. You are not well, ray Lord ; what is 
the matter with you .' 

Vald. Nothing, leave me alone for a little. 

[jor. Will you not join the company .' The 
procession is prepared to set out. 

Vald. Aye, very true ; tell me when they 
move the body, and I'll follow it. 

Page. He, he, he ! a funeral again. 

Lor. Unmannerly imp ; what art thou snick- 
ering at.' {To Vald. in a loud distinct voice.) 
It is not a funeral, my Lord. The lady Livia, 
and the Countess your mother, are going to the 



grotto, and are waiting impatiently below till 
you join them. 

Vald. {rubbing his forehead.) It is so : how 
went it out of my head.' That wine after 
dinner must have fuddled me. I'll join them 
immediately. 

Lor. Lean on me, my lord ; you are not 
well, I fear. 

Vald. No, no ! the fumes of that diabolical 
champaign have left, my head now. 

Lor. It must have been mixed with some 
black drug, I think, to produce such a sombre 
intoxication. 

Page. It may rest in the cellar long enough 
for me ; I'll none on't. 

Lor. Peace, young Sir ; and go before with 
one of these lights. 

[ExKUNT, Page lighting them. 

Scene II. — an arched grotto, the 

ROOF AND SIDES OF WHICH ARE CRUST- 
ED OVER WITH SHELLS AND CORALS, 
&C. ; A EANQ.nET SET OUT, ORNAMEN- 
TED WITH LAMPS AND FESTOONS OF 
FLOWERS. 

Enter Countess, led in by Dartz, and Livia 
by Valdemere, two other Ladies by the 
Baron and Walter Baurchel, Page and 

' Attendants following. 

Liv. Welcome all to my sea-nymph's hall; 
and do me the honour to place yourselves at 
table, as best pleases your fancy, without cere- 
mony. — If you hear any sound without, 'tis 
but the rolling of forty fathom water over- 
head; and nothing can intrude on our merri- 
ment, but a whale, or a mermaid, or a dol- 
phin. 

Walt. This same sea-nymph must have an 
ingenious art of cultivating roses in the bottom 
of the ocean. 

Liv. It must be a perfect contrivance in- 
deed that escapes the correct taste of Mr. 
Walter Baurchel. Fruit and ices perhaps 
may likewise be an incongruity : shall I or- 
der them away, and feast you on salt-water 
and limpits .' 

Bar. Aye, pickle him up with brine, in a 
corner bv himself; for he has a secret sym- 
pathy with every thing uncherishmg and 
pungent. 

Liv. Do me the honour to take your'places. 
I can pretty well divine which of the ladies 
will be your charge, gentle Baron. — But how 
is this.' The Countess and you exchange 
strange looks, methinks, as if you did not 
know one another. 

Bar. Some people exchange strange looks, 
fair Livia, from the opposite cause. 

Liv. I don't comprehend you : should you 
have preferred being in masks? that indeed 
would have been a less common amusement. 

Bar. By no means. Madam ; the Countess 
and I meeting one another unmasked is a very 
uncommon one. 

Counters. You know best, Baron, as far as 



400 



THE SIEGKi A COMEDY. 



you are yourself concerned: you always ap- 
peared to me a good and amiable man, and a 
most tender and elegant poet. 

Bar. Of which, Madam, you always took 
{Treat care to inform me, as a sincere and dis- 
interested friend. 

Lib. Ha ! what is all this ? Pop, poo 1 take 
your places together as usual : a love-quarrel 
never mars merry-making. 

IVa't. Yes, tender doves ! let them smooth 
down tiicir rutHed feathers by one another as 
sweetly as they can. Why should you, Ma- 
dam, give yourself any uneasiness about it. — 
But the Count, methinks, is less sprightly 
than usual : there are no more love-quarrels, 
1 hope, in the party. 

Liv. {looking at Vald.) Indeed you are very 
silent : I have been too much occupied to ob- 
serve it before. You don'tlike my grotto, I fear. 

Vald. Pardon me ! I like it very well : I 
like it very much. 

Liv. But this is not your usual manner of 
expressing approbation. 

Vald. is it not .■' you do me honour to re- 
member it. (Speaking cojifusediy as the com- 
pany sit down to table.) My spirits are very — 
that is to say, not altogether, but considera- 
bly- 

Dart. Low, Valdemere.' 

Vald. (snatching up a glass and filling a, 
bumper of wine, which he sivalloics hastily.) 
No, Dartz ; light as a feather. My tongue 
was so confoundedly parch'd : this wine is 
excellent (drinking another bumper.) Tliere 
is more beauty in these decorations than 1 was 
aware of : the effect, the taste is incompara- 
ble. (Drinks again.) It is truly exquisite. 

JValt. The champaign you mean, Count. 
I siiould have guess'd as much. 

Vald. No, no ; the decorations. Is it 

champaign ? Let me judge of its flavour more 
con.siderately ; (drinks again.) upon honour it 
is fit for the table of a god. — But our hostess 
is a divinity, and 'tis nectar we quaff at her 
board. — Wine ! common earthly wine ! I'll 
t!u-ust any man thro' with my rapier that says 
it is but wine. 

Bar. Keep your courage for a better cause. 
Count. Report says the enemy are near us ; 
ajid you may soon have the honour to exert it 
in defence of your divinity. 

Halt. Which will be a sacred war, you 
know,' and will entitle you, perhaps, to the 
glory of martyrdom. 

Vald. The enemy.'' 

JValt. Aye, report says they are near us. 

Vald. Be it so: I shall be prepared for them, 
(drinks again.) 

Dart, (aside to Walt.) By my faith, he will 
he prepared for them, for he'll fill himself 
mortal drunk, and frustrate our project en- 
tirel}'. (Jlsidc to Page.) Go, boy, and bid 
them make liaste : lliou understand'st me .'' 

Pagt. (aside.) Trust me for that : the Phi- 
listines shall be upon him immediately. 

Countess. Valdcmere is immeasurably fond 



of war and of military glory, which the teiv- 
derness of a too fearful mother has hitherto 
with difficulty restrained ; and in your cause, 
charming Livia, he will be enthusiastically 
devoted. 

Liv. 1 claim him then as my Knight, when- 
e'er I stand in need of his valorous arms ; 
though it may, perhaps, prove but a trouble- 
some honour. 

Vald. It is an honour I would purchase — 

aye, purchase with a thousand lives 1 

say it, divine Livia, with a thousand lives. 

Life !— life !— What is it .' but the breath of a 
moment: I scorn it. (Getting vp from table, 
and reeling about.) The enemy did they say ? 
Let an host of them come : this sword shall 
devour every mother's son of them. — I'm pre- 
pared for them all. 

Bar. (aside to Dart.) He is too well pre- 
pared ; we were foolish to let him drink so 
much. 

Countess, (aside to Vald.) Be seated again ; 
you disturb the company. 

Vald. (still reeling abmit.) Aye, divine 
Livia ; but the breath of a moment; 1 scorn 
it. (Jin alarm without : Re-enter 'Pdige; as if 
much frightened.) 

Page. O my lady Livia ! O my Masters ! 
O gentles all ! a party of the enemy is com,- 
ing to attack the castle, and they'll murder 
every soul of us. 

Vald. Speak plainer, Wretch ; what said'st 
thou .? 

Page, (speaking loud in his ear.) The enemy 
are coming to attack the castle. 

Vald. Thou liest, 

Page. I wish I did ; but he will confirm my 
words. (Pointing to a Servant who now enters 
in alarm.) 

Ser. (to Vald.) He speaks truth, my lord; 
ihey are approaching in great strength. 

Vald. Approaching ! are they near us then ? 

Page. Aye marry ! too near. They beat 
no drum, as you may guess; but the heavy 
sound of their march strikes from the hollow 
ground most fearfully. (Valdemere becoming 
perfectly sober, stands confounded.) 

Liv. (a7id the h?idiea, much alarmed.) What 
shall we do .•■ What will become of us ? 

Dart. Have courage, Madam; have cour- 
age, Ladies ; the valiant Valdemere is your 
defender ; you have nothing to fear. 

Liv. (and Ladies croicding close to Vald.) 
Aye, dear Count ; our safety depends on you. 
Save us ! Save us ! We have no refuge but 
you. (£11 clamouring at once.) 

Vald. Hush, hush, hush! They'll hear yoa. 
(In a loto choked voire.) 

Dart. Nay, don't whisper, Valdemere ; they 
are not so near us j'et. 

Bar. Rouse ye. Count, and give your or- 
ders for the defence of the castle immediately. 

Dart. We are ready to execute them, be 
they ever so daring. 

IValt. There is no time to be lost ; your or- 
ders, Count : do you comprehend us .' 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDY. 



401 



Vald. My orders ! 

Dart. Your orders quickly. 

Vald. I am thinking- 1 was thinking 

Page, (aside.) How to save yourself, 1 be- 
lieve. 

Bar. Well, noble Count, what are your 
thoughts. 

Vald. i — I — I am considering. 

IValt. Thought and consideration become a 
good Commander, with some spice of activity 
into the bargain. 

Dart. There is no time to deliberate ; issue 
your orders immediately. Under such an able 
commander we may stand a siege of some 
days, 

Vald. A siege ! — Aye, the very thing — and 
so suddenly ! 

Page. You tremble, my Lord ; shall I bring 
you drops.-' 

Countess. Thou liest, Boy ; get thee gone ! 
(Aside to Vald.) Are you beside yourself.'' 
Tell them what to do ; they wait for your or- 
ders. 

Vald. I order them all to the walls. Haste, 
haste, (pushing off the Ladies icko stand next 
him.) and man them as well as you can. 

Bar. Woman them, you mean, Valdemere ; 
these are ladies you push. 

Countess. Nay ; you crowd upon him too 
much — you confuse him ; he is as brave as 
his sword, if you would leave off confounding 
liim so. 

Liv. Dear Valdemere I What is the matter ? 
Rouse yourself, rouse yourself! (A great alarm 
without.) Hear that sound : they are at hand : 
what shall we do .'' There is a vault by the side 
of this grotto, where we poor miserable women 
may be concealed, but 

Vald. (eagerly.) Where is it .' My duty is 
to take care of you, dear Livia : come, come 
with me, and I'll place you in security. 
( Catches hold of the Page in his hurry, and runs 
off' with him.) 

Countess. Stop, stop ! That is the Page you 
have got. Will you leave me behind you .' 
{.Is Vald. is about to drag the Page into a re- 
cess at the side of the stage, the Boy lauo-hs 

ouiright, and he discovers his mistake.) 

Vald. Off, Wretch ! Where is Livia ; come, 
come, my Life ! Vv-here are you ? (Stretching 
out one hand to her, while his body bends eager- 
ly the other way.) 

Liv. No, Count ; I will not go. Alarm 
overcame me for the moment ; but now T will 
enter the castle ; and if the enemy should take 
it, they shall find me there in a situation be- 
coming its Mistress. 

Omnes. Bravely said, lady ! Let us all to 
the castle. 

Dart. With or without a commander, we'll 
defend it to the last extremity. 

Countess, (going to Vald. and speaking in 
his car, while she pulls him along with her.) 
Come with the rest, or be disgraced forever. 
Did 1 put a sword by your side, a cockade in 
your hat, for this .' (A still louder alarm 
50 



witlwut, and exeunt in great hurry and con- 
fusion.) 

Scene III. — a srove by the castle; 

THE SCENE DARKENED, AND MOVING 
LIGHTS SEEN THROUGH THE TREES 
FROM THE CASTLE, SOMETIMES 

GLEAMING FROM THE BATTLEMENTS, 
AND SOMETIMES FROM THE WINDOWS. 

Enter Nina with a Peasant's surtout over her 
dress. 

Min. O, if in this disguise I could but enter 
the castle ! Alas ! the company are gone in, 
and the gate is now shut. I'll wait here till 
daybreak. — Woe is me ! He passed by me 
quickly, and heard me not when I spoke to 

him. O mercy I Soldiers coming here ! 

(Hides herself amongst some hushes.) 

Enter Bounce, followed by Soldiers. 

Bounce. Come, let us hector it here awhile : 
I'll warrant ye we make a noise that might 
do for the siege of Troy. 

\st Sold. Aye, you're a book-learned man, 
Corporal : you're always talking of that there 
siege. Could they throw a bomb in those 
days, or fire off an eighteen-pounder any bet- 
ter than ourselves.' (Firing heard loithout.) 

Bounce. Hark ! our Comrades are at it on 
the other side : let us to it here at the same 
time. I'll warrant ye we'll make the fair 
Lady within and my Lady's fair gentlewomen, 
and the village Cure himself, should he be of 
the party, cast up their eyes like boiled fish, 
and say ten pater-nosters in a breath. 

(Voices icithout.) 
Hallo I hallo ! Comrades ! 
Who goes there .' 

Enter 2d Soldier and others. 

2d Sold. What makes you so quiet, an' be 
hanged to you ! An old woman with her 
spinning-wheel might be stationed here to as 
much purpose. I could not tell where to find 
you. 

Bounce. By my faith, 'tis the first time 
Corporal Bounce was ever accused of not 
making noise enough. Come ; we'll give you 
a round shall make the whole principality 
tremble. 
(They prepare to fire, ichen '3d Soldier enters 

in haste.) 

"id Sold. Hold, there ! Spare your powder 
for better purpose : an advanced corps of the 
enemy is coming in good earnest, and march- 
ing in haste to the castle. 

Bounce. So, we're to have real fighting 
then ! Faith, Comrade, valiant as I am, a lit- 
tle sham thunder, and a good supper after it, 
would have pleased my humour full as well 
at this present time Pest take it ! They must 
open the gates and let us in. What gentlemen 
are in the castle .'' We have no officer to com- 
mand us. 



402 



THE SIEGE: A COMEDV. 



2d Sold. The Chevalier Dartz is there, and 
Count Valdemere. 

Bounce. Ah ! he's but a craven-bird, that 
same Count: a kind of Free-mason-soldier, 
for parades and processions, and the like. If 
the young Baroii de Bertrand were there, we 
should be nobly commanded. 

'M Sold. Don't stand prating here ; let us 
give the alarm to the rest of our Comrades, 
and get into the castle ere the enemy come 
up with us. 

Bounce Come, then! But what moves 
amongst the bushes ? {Pulling out Nina.) A 
girl, i'faith, disguised in a countryman's sur- 
tout. 

Nln. O dear — O mercy ! Don't be angry 
with nie : I'm a poor harmless creature. 

Bounce. Blessings on thee, pretty one ! 
thou'rt harmless enough : don't think we're 
afraid of thee. Come away with us : we'll 
lodge thee safely in the castle. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — a hall in the castle. 

Enter LiviA and the Baron, talking as they 
enter. 
Liv. Yes, Baron ; you and your friends 
have, by this plot of yours, taught me a se- 
vere lesson ; and I thank you for it, though 
my own understanding ought to have made 
it unnecessary. 

Bar. Dear Livia; why should a young 
woman like you be so much affronted at find- 
ing her understanding — for you are mighty 
fond of that word understanding — not quite 
infallible ? At the age of G3, an age I shall 
hencefortii honestly own I have attained, one 
is not surprised at some small deficiencies 
even in one's own understanding. One can 
then, as I shall henceforth do, give up the 
vanity of being a wise man. 

Liv. And a poet, too, Baron .' That were 
too much to give up in one day. 

Bar. Posterity will settle that point, Mad- 
am, and I shall give myself very httle concern 
about the matter. 

Liv. Which one can easily perceive is per- 
fectly indifferent to you. {JKoise icitliout.) 
What increased noise is that.' Since your 
poor victim is already sacrificed, (forthey tell 
me he is gone, on pretence of violent illness, 
to the vaults under the castle,) why continue 
this mock-war any longer .' 

Enter Servant, 

Bar. By this man's looks one might suppose 
that our mockery had turned to earnest. 

Liv. (io Serv.) What is the matter : 

Scrv. A party of tlie real enemy. Madam, 
has come to attack the castle, and is now 
fighting with the Chevalier's men at the gate. 

Liv. Why did you not open the gate to re- 
ceive the Chevaliers men ? 



Serv. They called to us to get in ; but we 
could not distinguish them from the enemy, 
who were close on their heels ; so we let 
down the portcullis, a'nt please you, and 
they must fight it out under the walls as they 
can. 

Bar. Is the Chevalier in the castle .■* 

6'frf. O lud, no, Sir! he sallied out by the 
postern with Mr. Walter Baurchel and some 
of the domestics, and is fighting with them 
like a devil. But his numbers are so small, 
we fear he must be beaten ; and 

Lie. And how can we hold out with neither 
men, ammunition, nor provisions. Merciful 
Heaven deliver us ! 

Enter Maid-sertants, wringing their hands. 

Maids. O lud, lud ! What will become of 
us .' What will become of us .' What shall 
we do .' 

Bar. Any thing you please but stun us 
with such frantic clamour. Get off to your 
laundries and your store-rooms, and your 
dressing closets, and don't increase the confu 
si on here. 

[Exeunt Maids, clamouring and wringing 
their hands. 

Liv. You are rough with those poor crea- 
tures ; they are very much frightened. 

Bar. Not half so frightened as those who 
make less noise. They think it necessary to 
raise an oul-cry, because they are women and 
it is expected from them. I have been long 
enough duped in this way ; I have no patience 
with it now. — But I must go to the walls, and 
try to be of use. (going.) 
{Voice without.) Succour ! Succour ! 

Liv. Ha ! there is a welcome cry. 

Enter Jeanetta, 

Succour did they say .' 

Jean. Yes, my Lady : a band of men come 
to relieve us ; and their leader is charging the 
enemy so furiously sword in hand ! — the 
Chevalier, they said, fought like a devil ; but 
he fights like forty devils. We have been 
looking dovv'n upon them b}' torch-light from 
the walls; and their swords flash, and their 
plumes nod, and their eyes glare in the light 
so gallantl}', 1 could almost sally out inj'self 
and take a bout with thoin. 

Bar. (ioJean.) Aye, Minx; thou'rt forward 
enough to do any thing. 

Liv. Nay, chide her not when she brings 
us good news. — Heaven be praised for this 
timely aid ! What brave man has brought it 
to us .' Dost thou know him, Jeanetta ? 

Jean. No, Madam : for, thank God ! liis 
back is to us, and his fiice to the foe ; but 
there is a smack in his air of the Baron de 
Bertrand. 

Bar. Ha ! my brave Antonio ! Til be sworn 
it is he. Come ; let us to the ramparts, and 
look down on the combatants. 

Liv. Heaven grant there be not much blood- 
shed I [Exeunt. 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDY. 



403 



Scene II. — a dark vault. 

Enter Valdemere, followed by Page, carrying 
a torch in one hand, and his plumed cap in the 
other. 

Vald. (after hurrying some paces onward, 
stops short, and looks wildly round him .) Is 
there a passage this way ? 

Page. No, my Lord ; but you run marvel- 
lously fast for one so ill as you are ; I could 
scarcely keep up with you : pray stop here 
awhile, and take breath. 

Vald. Stop here, and that sound still behind 
me! 

Page. What sound ^ 

Vald. Did'st thou not hear the tread of 
heavy steps behind us ? The trampling of 
a whole band .'' 

Page, h was but the sound of my feet fol- 
lowing you. 

Vald. Only that. The castle is taken thou 
say'st, and the ruffians are in quest of me. 

Page. Aye, marry are they I Their savage 
leader says, as the old tale-book has it, that 
he'll have the heart's blood of Count Valde- 
mere on his sword before he eat or sleep. 
Vald. His sword ! 

Page. Aye, my Lord, a good heavy rapier 
I assure you; and he swears, since you have 
not fought like a man on the walls, he'll kill 
you like a rat in your hole. 
Vald. I am horribly beset ! 
Page. Aye, hot work, my Lord ; the bio- 
drops fall from your forehead, like a thunder 
shower. 

Vald. Thou liest : I am cold as the damp of 
a sepulchre. 

Page. And pale too, as tht thing tliat lies 
within it. 

Vald. (listening.) Hark, hark I they are 
coming. 

Page. I hear nothing. 
Void. Thou dost ! thou dost I lying varlet, 
with that treacherous leer upon thy face : thou 
hast decoyed me here for destruction. {Catch- 
ing him Inj the throat.) 

Page. For mercy, my Lord, let go your 
hold I 1 hear nothing, as I hope to be saved, 
but our own voices sounding again from the 
vaulted roof over our heads. 

Vald. Aye, it is vaulted; thou'rt right per- 
haps. — This strange ringing in my ears will 
not suffer me to know the sounds that really 
are, from those are not. — Why dost thou grin 
so ^ I have a frenzy I believe ; I know 1 am 
strangely disordered. It was not so with me 

yesterday. I could then Dost thou grin 

still • Stand some paces off: why art thou 
always so near me .' 

Page, (retiring to the opposite side of the 
stage.) I had best, perhaps : his hand has the 
gripe of a madman. 

Vald. (leans his back against the side-scene, 
pressing his temples tightly icith both hands, 
and speaking low to himself.) This horrible 
tumult of nature ! it knows within itself the 
moments that precede its destruction. 



Page. 1 must let him rest for a time. 
(Pause.) — It is cold here doing nothing. 
(Puts on his cap.) — He moves not : his eyes 
have a fixed ghastly stare ; truly he is ill. 
(Going up to him.) You are very ill, my 
Lord. 

Vald. (starting.) Have mercy upon me ! 
Page. Don't start, my Lord ; it was I who 
spoke to you. 

Vald. Who art thou .' 
Page. Your Page, my Lord. 
ViUd. ?Ia ! only thou ! thy stature seemed 
gigantic. 

Page. This half-yard of plume in my cap, 
and }'our good fancy have made it so. 

Vald. Aye; thou wert unbonnetted before. 
Keep by me then, but don't speak to me. 
(Ptitting his hand again to his temples.) 

Page. Nay, I must ask what is the matter. 
You are very ill: what is the matter with you ? 
Vald. There is a beating within me like 
the pendulum of a great clock. 

Page. Is it in your heart or your head, my 
Lord ? 

Vald. Don't speak to me : it is every 
where. 

Page. Rest here awhile ; they will not dis- 
cover you. You are indeed very ill. — Are 
you worse .'' 

Vald. Speak not ; my mouth is parched 
like a cinder ; I can't answer thee. 

Page. I'll fetch you some water. (Going.) 
Vald. (springing across the stage after him.) 
Not for the universe. 

Page, (aside.) He's strong enough still I 
see. (Turning his ear to the entry of the vault.) 
Vald. Thou'rt listening ; thou hear'st some- 
thing. 

Page. By my faith they are coming now. 
Vald. Merciful Heaven ! where shall I run? 
Page. Where you please, my Lord. 
Vald. (hurrying two or three steps on, in a 
kind of groping loay.) The light fails me : I 
don't see where I am going. 

Page. Nay it burns very clearly ; I fear it 
will discover where we are. 

Vald. Put it out I put it out, for God's sake ! 
— Where is it.' (Seizes on the torch, puts it out, 
stamping on it icith his feet, then laying him- 
self on the floor.) I am gone — I am dead ; 
tell them so, for God's sake ! 

Page. I shall tell but half a lie when I do. 

Enter Baron and Walter Baurchel with 
Soldiers' cloaks thrown over them, and Livia 
in the same disguise, with a military cap 
drawn over her eyes, a Servant preceding 
them with torches. 

Liv. (shrinking lack as she enters.) Is he 
dead .' (Page nods, and tcinks to her signifi- 
cantly.) 

Bar. (in a rough voice.) Has the Caitiff es- 
caped my sword ? Have I thirsted for his 
blood in vain ? 

Walt, (in a rough voice also.) Is he really 
dead .' I'll lay my hand on liis breast, and 
feel if his heart beats. 



404, 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



Page. O don't do that, gracious merciful 
Sir ! You'll but defile your worshipful fin- 
gers in touching of a dead corse, which brings 
bad luck with it. 

Walt. Well then. Boy, I will not; but 
there are a couple of brawny knaves without, 
who are burying tlie dead for us ; they shall 
come forthwitli,and cast him into the pit with 
tlie rest. 

Page. O lud, no. Sir ! don't do that, please 
your worshipful Goodness ! What if hejshould 
come alive again .-' 

Walt. Never fear that; I'll draw this rapier 
cross his laced cravat, and make it secure. 

Vald. {starting up upon his knees.) Mercy, 
mercy I slay not a dying man ; let me breathe 
my last breath without violence. 

Liv. (covering her eyes, and turning away 
her head.) Torment him no more, 1 beseech 
you! 

Enter Antonio, and Uartz with his arm 
bound up. 

J}nt. Nay, Gentlemen, this is unfeeling, 
ungenerous, unmanly. Stand upon your 
feet, Count Valdemere, (raising him up.) 
there are none butfriends near you, if friends 
they may be called, who have played you 
such an abominable trick. 

Vald. How is this ? Art thou Antonio .' 
Where are those who would have butcher'd 
me.? 

Omnes, Liv. and Mnt. excepted. Ha, ha, ha ! 
(laughing some time.) 

Bar. Nowhere, Valdemere, but in your 
own imagination. We have put this deceit 
upon you to cure you of arrogance and boast- 
ing.^ 

Walt. Running the usual risk, gentle 
Count, of not having our services veiy thank- 
fully acknowledged. 

Vald. You have laid a diabolical snare for 
me, and I have fallen into it most wretched- 
ly. — I have been strangely overcome. 1 have 

been moved as with magic. — I have been 

I— I know not— What shall I call it .=" 

Walt. Give yourself no trouble about that. 
Count ; we can find a name for it. 

Ant. Nay, good Sir ; you shall not call it 
by any name a man would be asham {cor- 
recting himself) unwilling to hear. The 
Count, as Dartz has informed me, while I 
bound up his wound above stairs, has been 
tampered with, by dreams and fortune-telling 
and other devices, in a way that might have 
overcome many a man, who, differently cir- 
cumstanced, would not have shrunk from his 
duty in the field. And shall we sjjort wan- 
tonly with a weakness of our nature in some 
degree conunon to all .? We admire a brave 
man for overcoming it, and should pity the 
less brave when it overcomes him. 

Liv. {catching his hand eagerly.) Noble An- 
tonio ! 

Ant. Young man, I thank you : this squeeze 
of the hand tells me I have you upon my side. 



Vald. And let me also say, " Noble Anto- 
nio ! " — And what more can I say .' I have 
not deserved this generous treatment from 
you. 

Ant. Say nothing more : the transactions 
of this night shall be as if they had never 
been : they will never be mentioned by any 
of us. 

Walt . Speak for yourself Antonio De Ber- 
trand ; my tongue is a free agent, and will 
not be bridled by another person's feelings. 
But there is one condition on which I con- 
sent to be silent as tlie grave ; and the Baron 
and Chevalier concur with me. 

(Bar. and Dartz.) We do so. 

[Exit Bar. 

Dart. We but require of Valdemere to do 
what, as a man of honour he is bound to do ; 
and satisfied on this point, our silence is se- 
cured for ever. 

(Re-enter Bar, leading in Nina.) 

Bar. {to Vald.) Look on this fair gentle- 
woman : her father was a respectable officer, 
though misfortunes prevented his promotion. 
You have taken advantage of her situation, 
being under the protection of the Countess 
your mother, as a God-daughter and distant 
relation, to use her most unworthily. Make 
her your wife, and receive, as her dowry, 
your reputation in the world untarnished. 

JValt. Now, good, heroic, sentimental An- 
tonio ; is this too much to require of the no- 
ble personage you plead for .■' 

Ant. On this I am compelled to be silent. 

Bar. Will Count Valdemere vouchsafe us 
an answer .'' Will you marry her or not, 
Count ? 

Vald. I have indeed — I ought in strict jus- 
tice She will not accept of one who has 

used her so unworthily. 

Page, {eagerly.) I hope not : I would rath- 
er than a thousand crowns she would refuse 
him. 

Dart. Will you have him or not, pretty 
Nina .-' Don't be afraid to refuse him : we 
shan't think the worse of you if you do. (Ni- 
na stands silent and iceeping.) 

Page, (aside to Nina.) Don't have him, 
Woman ; he's a coward and a coxcomb, and 
a don't have him. 

JYina. (aside.) Ah, you have never loved 
him as I have done, Brother. 

Page, {aloud.) Murrain take thee and thy 
love too ! thou hast no more spirit in thee 
than a worm. 

Bar. Bravo, Boy ! thou hast enough of it, 
I see ; and I'll put a stand of colours in thy 
hand as soon as thou art strong enough to 
carry them. Thou art my boy now ; I will 
protect thee. 

Page. I thank you. Baron. — And my sis- 
ter ; will you protect her too ? 

Bar. Yes, child; botii of you. 

Page. Refuse him tiien Nina : hast thou 
no more pride about thee .■' 



THE SIEGE : A COMEDY. 



405 



Mna. Alas ! I should have more pride : I 
know I should ; but I have been sadly hum- 
bled. 

Page. Thou'lt be still more so if thou art his 
wife, trust me ! for he'll despise thee, and 
cow thee, and make thee a poor slave to his 
will. Thou'lt tremble at every glance of 
his eye, and every turn of his humoursome 
fancy. — He'll treat thee like a very 

Void. Stop, spiteful Wretch ! I'll cherish 
and protect her, and turn every word tliou 
hast uttered to a manifest and abominable 
falsehood. — Give me thy hand, Nina ; thou 
really lovest me ; no one will do it but thee ; 
and I shall have need of somebody to love me. 

Omnes. Well said. Count ! this is done 
like a man .' 

Jlnt. (to Page.) Faith, Boy! those sharp 
words of thine were worth a store of gentle 
persuasion. Thou hast woo'd for thy sister 
in a spell-like fashion, as witches say their 
prayers backwards. I wish somebody would 
court my mistress for me in the same man- 
ner : 'tis the only chance I have of winning 
her. 

Liv. (in a feigned voice.) I'll do that for 
thee, gallant De Berlrand; for 1 know faults 
enough of yours to acquaint her with, besides 
the greatest of all faults, concealing good tal- 
ents under a bushel; every tittle of which I 
will tell her forthwith, and she'll marry you, 
no doubt, out of spite. 

Jlnt. Thanks, pleasant Stripling ! May 
thy success be equal to thy zeal ! (Taking her 
hand.) Thy name, youth : thou hast a pretty 
gait in that warlike cloak of thine, but thy 
cap over-shadows thee perversely. — Ha ! this 
is not a boy's hand ! — That ring — O Heavens ! 
{Retires some paces hack in confusion, ichile 

Livia, taking off her cap and cloak, makes 

him a profound curtesy ; and pauses, ex- 
pecting him to speak. Finding him silent, 

she begins to rub her hand, and look at it af- 
fectedly.) 

Liv. It is not a boy's hand, Baron de Ber- 
trand : 'tis the hand of a weak foolish woman, 
which shall be given to a lover of her's who 
is not much wiser than herself, whenever he 
has courage to ask it. 

Walt, (aside, jogging Ant.) That is thy- 
self: dost thou not apprehend her, Man.'' 

Liv. (still looking at her hand.) Even so ; 
whenever he has courage to ask it. That, I 
suppose, may happen in about five or six 
years from this present time. 

Jint. (running up to her, catching her hand, 
and putting his knee to the ground,) Now, now, 
dear Livia ! O that I could utter what I feel ! 
— I am a fool still ; — I cannot. 

Liv. Nothing you can possibly say will 
make me more sensible of your generous 
worth, or more ashamed of my former injus- 
tice to it. 
{All croicd round Ant. and Liv. to congratulate 

them, iciien the Countess is heard speaking 

angrily icithout.) 

Dart. We must pay our compliments anoth- 



er time ; I fear there is a storm ready to burst 
upon us. 

Enter Countess. 

Countess. Yes, Gentlemen ; I have heard 
of 3'our plot, as you call it; a diabolical con- 
spiracy for debasing the merit you envy. I 
despise you all : you are beneath my anger. 

IValt. Let us escape it then. 

Countess, (to Walt.) Aye, snarling Cynic ! 
who hast always a prick of thy adder's tongue 
to bestow upon every one whom the world 
admires or caresses; thou art the wicked 
mover of all these contrivances. (To the Bar.) 
As for you, poor antiquated Rhime-maker ! 
had I but continued to praise your verses, you 
would have suffered me to ruin your whole 
kindled very quietly; nor had one single 
grain of compunction disturbed the sweet 
calm of your gratified vanity. 

Bar. Nay, Madam ; I cannot charge my 
memory witli any interruption of your good- 
ness, in this respect, to my face : had you 
been as perseveringly obliging behind my 
back, we might indeed have remained longer 
friends than would have been entirely for the 
interests of my heir. 

Countess. Well, well ; may every urchin 
of the principality learn by rote some scrap 
of your poetry, and mouth it at you as often 
as you stir abroad I (To Liv.) And you, Mad- 
am; you are here, too, amongst this worship- 
ful divan ! This is your hospitality — your 
delicacy — your O ! may you wed a ty- 
rant for your pains, and these walls prove 
your odious prison ! — But I spend my words 
vainly : where is the unhappy victim of your 
envious malevolence .' They told me he was 
here. (Discovering Vald. and Nina retired to 
the bottom of the stage.) Ha I you are here, 
patiently enduring their triumph, degenerate 
Boy ! Is this the fruit of all my cares .'' Did 
I procure for you a military appointment, did 
I tease every creature connected with me tor 
your promotion, did I ruin myself for your 
extravagant martial equipments — and has it 
all come to this .■' 

Vald. You put me into the army. Madam, 
to please your own vanity ; and they who 
thrust their sons into it for that purpose, are 
not always gratified. 

Countess. And you answer me thus ! I 
have spoilt you, indeed ; and an indulged 
child, I find, does not always prove a dutiful 
one. Who is that you hold by the hand.' 

Vald. My wife, Madam, 

Countess. Your wife ! You do not say so : 
you dare not say so. Have they imposed a 
wife upon you also .' Let go her unwortliy 
hand. 

Vald. No, Madam ; never. It is my hand 
that is unworthy to hold so much innocent 
affection. 

Countess. You are distracted : let go her 
hand, or I renounce you for ever. — What, 
will you not ^ . 

Vald. I will not. 



-106 



THE SIEGE I A COMEDY. 



Countess. Thou can'st be sturdy, I find, 
only for thine own ruin. They have con- 
founded and bewildered thee : thou hast join- 
ed the conspiracy against thyself, and thy 
poor mother. — O, I could hate thee more than 
them all ! — Heaven grant me patience ! 

Walt. I like to hear people pray for what 
they really want. 

Countess. Insolent ! Heaven grant you 
what you need not pray for, the detestation 
of every one annoyed with your pestiferous 
society. [E.tiT in rage. 

Dart. Let us be thankful this tornado is 
over, and the hurry of an eventful day and 
night so happily concluded. — I hope, charm- 
ing Livia, you forgive our deceit, and regret 
not its consequences. 

Liv. Tlie only thing to be regretted, Chev- 
alier, is the wound you have received. 

Dart. Thank God ! this, though but slight, 
is the only harm that has been done to-night, 
a broken pate or two excepted ; and our 
feigned attack upon the castle has been prov- 
identially the means of defending it from a 
real one. Had not Antonio, however, who 
was not in our plot, come so opportunely to 
our aid, we had been beaten. — But now that 
I have time to inquire, how did'st thou come 
so opportunely .' 

Jlnt. I have been in the habit of wandering 
after dark round the walls. Livia knows not 
how many nights I have watched the light 
gleaming from the window of her chamber. 



Wandering then, as usual, I discovered a 
corps of the enemy on their march to the cas- 
tle, and went immediately for succour, which 
I fortunately found. We have both fought 
stoutly, my Friend, with our little force ; but 
the blows have fallen to your share, and the 
blessing to mine. 

Dart. Not so ; friends keep not their shares 
so distinctly. 

Liv. True, Chevalier; and you claim, be- 
sides, whatever satisfaction you may have 
from the gratitude of this good company, for 
contriving a plot that has ended so fortunately. 

Dart. Nay, there is, I fear, one person in 
this good company, from whom my claims, 
of this kind, are but small. — Count Valdemere, 
can you forgive me .' 

Void. Ask me not at present, Dartz. I 
know that my conduct to Antonio did deserve 
correction ; but you have taken a revenge for 
him with merciless severity, which he would 
himself have been too generous, too noble to 
have taken. 

Dart. Well Count, I confess I stand some- 
what reproved and conscience-stricken before 
you. 

Walt. (<o,Dart.) Why, truly, if he forgive 
thee, or any of us, by this day twelve-month, 
it will be as much as we can reasonably ex- 
pect. 

Dart. Be it so ! And now we have all par- 
don to ask, where, 1 hope, it will be granted 
immediately. (Bowing to the audience.) 



THE BEACON: A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Ulrick, Loid of the Island. 

Ermingard. 

Bastiani, Friend of Vlrick. 

Garcio, J^/Jc«(Z of Ermingard. 

Page. 

Pope's Leo-ate. 

Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. 

Fishermen, Singers, Attendants of the Le- 
gate, &c. 

WOMEN. 

Aurora. 

Terentia, a noble Lady and Govcrnantc to 
Aurora. 

El ' i Ladies attending on Aurora. 

Scene, a small Island of the Mediterranean. 
Time, toicards the tniddle of the lith Century. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — a grove adjoining to a 

CASTELLATED BUILDING, PART OF 
WHICH ONLY IS SEEN. 

Several People are discovered near the Window 
of one of its Towers, who begin to sing as the 
Curtain draws up. 

SONG of several voices. 

Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour; 
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower ; 
On flower and tree, loud hums the bee ; 
The v/ilding kid sports merrily; 
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
Shineth when good fortune's near. 

Up ! Lady fair, and braid thy hair. 

And rouze thee in tlie breezy air ; 

The lulling stream, that sooth'd thy dream, 

Is dancing in the sunny beam ; 

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, 

Will waft good fortune on its way. 

Up! time will tell ; the friar's bell 
Its service-sound hath chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone. 
And reapers to the fields are gone ; 
The active day so boon and bright, 
May bring good fortune ere the night. 

Enter Page ; 

Page. Leave off your morning songs, they 
come too )ate , 



My lady hath been up these two good houra, 
And hatli no heart to listen to your lays ; 
You should have clieer'd her sooner. 

1st. Sing. Her nightly vigils make the 
ev'ning morn, 
And thus we reckon'd time. 

Page. Well, go ye now ; 

Another day she'll hear your carols out. 
[Exeunt Page and Singers severally, by the 
bottom of the stage, icliile Ulrick and Ter- 
entia enter by the front, speaking as they 
enter. 
Ul. Thou plead 'st in vain : this night shall 

be the last. 
Ter. Have patience, noble Ulrick; be as- 
sur'd, 
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone. 
Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora, 
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff, 
Her beacon watch: despondency, ere long, 
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task. 

VI. Sad and unvaried ! Aye ; to sober 
minds 
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child, 
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring 
The wonted mess, prepar'd against its waking, 
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt : 
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out 
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon. 
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare 
A thousand times liatli glided, till by force 
His angry Dame hath dragg'd him from his 

station. 
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature, 
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life 
Shall to an end wear sadly. Patience, say'st 

thou .' 
I have too long been patient. 
■ Ter. Then, be it known to thee, despond- 
ency 
Already steals upon her ; for she sits not 
So oft' as she was wont upon the beach, 
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence ; 
And when the night is come, less eagerly 
She now inquires if yet tlie beacon's light 
Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff 
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. 1 guess 
Soon of her own accord, she'll watch no more. 
UL No, thou unwisely guessest. By that 
flame 
I do believe some spirit of ".he night 
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear 
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come. 
Ter, In truth, my Lord, you do yourself 
talk strangely ; 
These are wild thoughts. 

Ul. Nay, be thou well assur'd. 

Spell-bound she is : night hath become her 
day : 



408 



THE BEACON : A MUSICAL DRAMA, 



On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous 

things, 
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends 
Such as affliction courts,) her ear and fancy 
Do solely dwell. This visionary stale 
Is fostcr'd by these nightly watchings ; there- 
fore, 
I say again, I will no more endure it ; 
This night shall be the last, 

Tcr. That Ermingard upon the plains of 
Palestine 
Fell on that fatal day , what sober mind 
Can truly doubt ; altho' his corpse, defaced. 
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd. 
For, W'cll I am assur'd had he survived it, 
Knowing thou wer't his rival, and Aurora 
Left in this isle, where thou bear'st sov'reign 

sway. 
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back. 
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared, 

Have to their homes return'd. Thou 

shak'st thy head, 
Thou dost not doubt .'' 

Ul. We'll speak of this no more. 
I'm sick and weary of these calculations. 
We must and will consider him as dead ; 
And let Aurora know 

Enter Bastiani. 

(To Bast, angrily) Why, Bastiani, 
Intrud'st thou thus regardless of my state : 
These petty cares are grown most irksome to 

me ; 
I cannot hear thee now. 

Bast. Indeed, my Lord, it is no petty care 
Compels me to intrude. Within your port 
A vessel from the holy land has moor'd. 
Ul. (starting.) Warriors from Palestine .' 
Bast. No, good my Lord ! 

The holy legate on his way to Rome ; 
Who, by late tempests driven on our coasts, 
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit. 
And give refreshment to his weary train. 
UL In evil hour he comes to lord it here. 
Bast. He doth appear a meek and peaceful 

man. 
Ul. 'Tis seeming all. 1 would with mailed 
foes 
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend 
Than strive with such my peaceful town 

within. 
Already landed say'st thou.' 

Bast. Yes, from the beach their grave pro- 
cession comes. 
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep, 
That glows behind them in the western sun, 
Crosses and spears and croziers shew aloft 
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct con- 
fusion ; 
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled 

priests. 
And crested chiefs a closing group below 
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too, 

Move slowly on. 

Ul. Then must I haste to meet them. 
Bast. Or be most strangely wanting in re- 
spect. 



For every street and alley of your city. 

Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon 

them. 
The very sick and dying, v/hose wan cheeks 
No more did think to meet the breath of 

heaven. 
Creep to their doors, and stretch their with- 
er 'd arms 
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids. 
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity. 
Come forth with threaded roserie-s in their 

hands 
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd ; 
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up, 
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe 
May bring them good. — And in fair truth, my 

Lord, 
Amongst the crowd the rev'rend legate seems 
Like a right noble and right gentle parent 
Cheering a helpless race. 

Ul. Aye, 'tis right plain thou art besotted 
too. 
Were he less gentle, I should fear him less. 

[Exit. 
Bast. He's in a blessed mood : what so dis- 
turbs him ? 
Tcr. What has disturb'd him long, as well 
thou knowest : 
Aurora's persevering fond belief. 
That her beloved Ermingard still lives 
And will return again. To guide his bark 
Upon our dang'rous coast she nightly kindles 
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame ; 
For so she promised, when he parted from 

her. 
To watch for his return. 

Bast. Ulrick in wisdom should have married 
them 
Before he went, for then the chance had been 

She had not watch'd so long. 

Your widow is a thing of more docility 
Than your lorn maiden. — Pardon, fair Teren- 
tia. 
Tcr. Thy tongue wags freely. — Yet, I must 
confess. 
Had Ulrick done what thou call'st wisely, he 
The very thing had done which as her kins- 
man 
He was in duty bound to. — But alas ! 
A wayward passion warp'd him from the 

right. 
And made him use his power ungen'rously 
Their union to prevent. 

Bast. But tho' the death of Ermingard were 
proved, 
Think'st thou Aurora would bestow her hand 
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd ; 
A lover cloth'd in stern authority ? 

Ter. I know not ; Ulrick fondly so believes ; 
And I, altho' allied to him by blood, 
The play-mate also of his early days. 
Dare not an opposite opinion utter. 

Bast. Hark there ! I hear without th' ap- 
proaching crowd. 
My duty on this public ceremony 
I must attend, for honour of the state. 
In petty courts like this, on such occasions, 



THE BEACON: A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



409 



One spangled doublet more or less bears 
count. [Exeunt severally. 

Scene II.— ak areour supported bt 

RUSTIC WOODEN PILLARS, TWINED 
ROUND WITH FLOWERS AND GREEN 
PLANTS, AND A FLOWER GARDEN 
SEEN IN THE BACK GROUND BETWEEN 
THE PILLARS. 

Enter Page, followed by Edda, speaking as she 
enters. 
Ed. Yes, do so, Boy ; Aurora is at hand. — 
But take with thee, besides, this little basket, 
And gather roses in the farther thicket, 

Close to the garden gate. 

Page, (taking the basket.) Give it me then. 
She chid me yesterday 
For gath'ring full-spread roses, Avliose loose 

leaves < 

Fell on her lap : to-day I'll fill my basket 
With buds, and budlings, and half-open'd 

flowers, 
Such as nice dames do in their kerchiefs 
place. 
Ed. Prate less and move tliee quicker. Get 
thee hence. 
See there thy mistress comes : haste to thy 
task. [Exit Page. 

Enter Aurora and.TERENXiA. 

Tcr. Here you will find a more refreshing 
air ; 
The western sun beats fiercely. 

Jlur. Western sun ! 

Is time so far advanced .'' I left my couch 
Scarcely an hour ago. 

Ter. ' . You are deceived.' 

Three hours have past, but past by you un- 
heeded ; 
Who have the while in silent stillness sat, 
Like one forlorn, that has no need of time. 

Aur. In truth I now but little have to do 
With time or any thing besides. It passes ; 
Hour follows hour ; day follows day ; and year, 
If I so long shall last, will follow year : 
Like drops that thro' the cavem'd hermit's 

roof 
Some cold spring filters ; glancing on his eye 
At measured intervals, but moving not 
His fix'd unvaried notice. 

Ed. Nay, dearest lady, be not so depress'd. 
You have not ask'd me for my song to day — 
The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not 

sing it ? 
I do but wait your bidding. 

Jlur. I thank thy kindness ; sing it if thou 
wilt. 
{Sits dozen on a low scat, her head supported 

between both her hands, with her elbows rest- 
ing on her knees:) 

SONG. 

Where distant billows meet the sky, 
A pale dull light the seamen spy, 
As spent they gtand and tempest-tost, 
Their vessel struck, their rudder lost ; 
51 



While distant homes where kinsmen weep, 

And'graves full many a fathom deep, 

By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts pourtray : 

" 'Tis some delusion of the sight, 

Some northern streamer's paly light." 

" Fools I" saith rous'dHope with gen'rouS scorn, 

" It is the blessed peep ofmorn, 

And aid and safety come when comes the day." 

And so it is; the gradual shine 

Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lenglhen'd line : 

Cloud after cloud begins to glow 

And tint the changeful deep below ; 

Now sombre red, now amber bright, 

Till upward breaks the blazing light ; 

Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn : 

Far distant on the ruddy tide, 

A black'ning sail is seen to glide ; 

Loud bursts their eager joyful cry, 

Their hoisted signal waves on high, 

And life and strength and happy thoughts return 

Ter. Is not her voice improved in power 

and sweetness.'' 
Ed. It is a cheering song. 
Jlur. It cheers those who ai'e cheer'd. 

(After a pause.) 
Twelve years are past ; 
Their daughters matrons grown, their infants 

youths, 
And they themselves with aged furrows 

mark'd ; 
But none of all their kin are yet return'd, 
No, nor shall ever. 

Ter. Still run thy thoughts upon those hap- 
less women 
Of that small hamlet, vvhose advent'rous pea- 
sants 
To Palestine with noble Baldwin went, 
And ne'er were heard of more ? 
Aur. They perish'd there ; and of their dis- 
mal fate , 
No trace remain'd — none of them all return'd. 
Did'st thou not say so .' — Hushands, lovers, 

frieftds, — 
Not one return'd again. 

ler. So 1 believe.— 

Aur. Thou but believest then .'' 

. Ter. As I was told 

Ed. Thou hast the story wrong. 

Four years gone by, one did return again ; 
But marr'd and maim'd and changed, — a wo- 
ful man. 
Aur. A-gd what tho' every limb were hack'd 
and maim'd, 
And roUghen'd o'er with scars.' — he did re- 
turn. (Rising lightly from her seat.) 
I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go, 
To the Antipodes or burning zone, 
To see that man who did return again, 
And her, who did receive him. — Did receive 

him ! 
O what a moving thought lurks here ! — How 

was't ? 
Tell it me all : and oh, another time. 
Give me your talc ungarbled. — 

Enter Viola. 

Ha Viola ! "tis my first sight of thee 

Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope, 



410 



THE BEACON I A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



A sound and kindly sleep. 

Viol. Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd 

with dreams. 
^ur. How cross'd .' What was thy dream.' 
O tell it me ! 
I have an car that craves for every thing 
That hath the smallest sign or omen in it. 
It was not sad .' 

Voil. Nay, rather strange : Methought 

A christ'ning feast within your bower was 

held ; 
But when the infant to the font was brought, 
It proved a full-grown man, in armour clad. 
Jlur. A full-grown man ! (considering for a 
moment, and then holding up her 
hands.) 

O blessing on my dream ! 
From death to life restor'd is joyful birth. 
It is, it is ! Come to my heart, sweet Maid ! 

{Embracing Viola.) 
A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep ! 
I feel a kindling life within me stir, 
That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth 
A joy that soon shall be. 

Ter. So may it prove ! 

Bat trust not such vain fkncies, nor appear 
Too much elated ; for unhappy Ulrick 
Swears that your Beacon, after this night's 

watch, 
Shall burn no more. 

Jlur. He does ! Then will we have 
A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze 
Shall thro' the darkness shoot full many a 

league 
Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star 
Preceding changeful — aye, and better times. 
It may in very truth. — O if his bark 
(For many a bark within its widen'd reach 
The dark seas traverse) should its light des- 

Should this be so — it may ; perhaps it will. 

that it might ! — We'll have a rousing blaze .' 
Give me your hands. {Taking Viola awrfTer- 

entia gaily by the hands.) 

So lightly bounds my heart, 

1 could like midnight goblins round the flame 

Unruly orgies hold. Ha ! think ye not. 

When to the font our mail-clad infant comes, 
Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove .'' 
Nay, nay, Terentia, look not so demure, 

I needs must laugh. ^ 

Ter. Indeed you let your fancy wildly run ; 
And disappointment will the sharper be. 

J}ur. Talk not of disappointment ; be assur'd 
Some late intelligence doth Ulrick prompt 
To these stern orders. On our sea there sails, 
Or soon will sail, some vessels which right 

gladly 
He would permit to founder on the coast, 
Or miss its course. But no ; it will not be : 
In spite of all his hatred, to the shore, 
Thro' seas as dark as subterraneous night 
It will arrive in safety. 

Ter. Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy 

wishes 
With wild unlikely thoughts ; for Ulrick 

surely 



No such intelligence hath had, and thou 
But inak'st thy after-sorrow more acute 
When these vain fancies fail. 
yliir. And let them fail! Tho' duller thoughta 
succeed, 
The bliss e'en of a moment, still is bliss. 
Viol, (to Ter.) Thou would'st not of her 
dew-drops spoil the thorn 
Because her glory will not last till noon ; 
Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt, 
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye 
on't! 

If this be wise, 'tis cruel. 

Jlur. Thanks, gentle Viola ! Thou art ever 
kind. 
We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store 
And make of this a blessing for to-day, 
Tho' good Terentia there may chide us for it. 
Ter. And thus, a profitable life you'll lead, 
Which hath no present time, but is made up 
Entirely of to-inorrows. 

£ur. Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll wor- 
ship still 
The blessed morrow, store-house of all good 
For wretched folks. They who lament to- 
day, • ■ 
May then rejoice : They who in misery bend 
E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed. 

! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours 
May of returning joy contain.'' To-morrow ! 
The blest to-morrow ! Cheering, kind to- 
morrow ! 

1 were a heathen not to worship thee. 

(To Ter.) Frown not again; we must not 
wrangle now. 
Ter. Thou dost such vain and foolish fan- 
cies cherish ; 

Thou forcest me to seem unkmd and stern. 
^ur. Ah ! be not stern. Edda will sing the 
song 

That makes feet beat and heads nod to its 
tune ; 

And even grave Terentia will be moved 

To think of pleasant tilings. 

SONG. 

Wish'd-for gales the light vane veering, 
Better dreams the dull night cheering; 
Lighter heart the morning greeting. 
Things of better omen meeting ; 
Eyes each passing stranger watching, 
F>ars each feeble rumour catching, 
Say he existeth still on earthly ground. 
The absent will return, the long, long lost be 
found. 

In the tower the ward-bell ringing, 
In the court the carols singing; 
Busy hands the gay board dressing. 
Eager steps the threshold pressing, 
Open'd arms in haste advancing, 
Joyful looks thro' blind tears glancing; 
The gladsome bounding of his aged hound, 
Say he in truth is liere, our long, long lost is 
found. 

Hymned thanks and beadsmen praying, 
With sheath'd sword the urchin playing ; 



THE BEACON : . A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



411 



Blazon'd liall with torches burning, 
Cheerful morn in peace returning ; 
Converse sweet that strangely borrows 
Present bliss from former sorrows, 

who can tell each blessed sight and sound, 
That says, he with us bides, our long, long lost 

is found. 

Jiur. (who at first nods her head lightly to 
the measure, now bursts into tears, 
taking Edda's liands between hers and 
pressing them gratefully.) 

1 thank thee ; this shall be our daily song. 
It cheers my heart, altlio' these foolish tears 
Seem to disgrace its sweetness. 

Enter Page. 
Viol, {to Aur.) Here comes your Page with 
lightly bounding steps 
As if he brought good tidings. 

Ed. Grant he may ! 

Jlur. (eagerly.) What brings thee hither, 

Boy.:" 
Page, (to Aur.) A noble stranger of the 
Legate's train, 
Come from the holy land, doth wait without, 
Near to the garden gate, where I have left 

him. 
He begs to be admitted to your presence ; 
Pleading for such indulgence as the friend 
Of Ermingard ; for so he bade me say. 
Jlur. The friend of Ermingard ! The holy 
land ! 
(Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up 

her arms in ecstasy.) 
O God ! It is himself. 

(Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, 
then catching hold qfTerentia, tcho follows 
her.) 
My head is dizzy grown; I cannot go. 
Haste, lead him hither. Boy. 

( Waving her hand impatiently.) 

Fly; hear'st thou not.' [Exit Page. 

Ter. Be not so greatly mov'd. It is not 

likely 

This should be Ermingard. The boy has seen 

him, 
And would have known him. 'Tis belike 
some friend. 
Jiur. No ; every thrilling fibre of my frame 
Cries out " It is himself." (Looking out.) 
He comes not yet ; how strange ! how dull ! 
how tardy 1 
Ter. Your Page hath scarce had time to 
reach the gate, 
Tho' he hath run right quickly. 

Aur. (pausing and'looking out.) He comes 
not yet. Ah ! if it be not he, 
My sinking heart misgives me. 
O now he comes ! the size and air are his. 
Ter. Not to my fancy : there is no resem- 
blance. 
Jlur. Nay but there is. And see, he wears 
his cloak 
As he was wont to do ; and o'er his cap 
The shading plume so hangs — It is! It 
is! 



Enter Garcio, and she breaking from Teren- 

TiA, runs towards him._ 
My lost, my found, my blest ! conceal thee 

not. 

(Going to catch him in her arms, when Garcio 

takes off his plumed cap and botes prof ound- 

ly ; she utters a faint cry, and shrinks back.) 

Gar. Lady, I see this doff'd cap hath dis- 

cover'd 

A scarce less welcome than the one you 

look'd for. 
Pardon a stranger's presence ; I've presumed 
Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard, 

Who bade me — '■ 

Aur. Bade thee ! is he then at hand ? 

Gar. Ah, would he were ! 
'Twas in a hostile and a distant land. 
He did commit to me these precious tokens, 
Desiring me to give them to Aurora, 
And \^Sth them too, his .sad and last farewell. 
Aur. And he is dead ! 
Gar. Nay, wring not thus your hands : 
He was alive and well when ne intrusted 

me 
With what I now return. 

(Offering her a small casket.) 
Aur. Alive and well, and sends me back 

my tokens ! 
Gar. He sent them back to thee as Ulrick's 
wife ; 
For such, fore 'd by intelligence from hence 
Of strong authority, he did believe thee : 
And in that fatal fight, which shortly fol- 

low'd. 
He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame. 
Fame he indeed hath earn'd. 

Aur. But not the other ? 

Ah do not say he has ! Amongst the slain ! 
His body was not found. 

Gar. As we have learnt, the Knights of 
blest St. John 
Did from the field of dying and of wounded 
Many convey, who in their house of charity 
All care and solace had; but with the names, 
Recorded as within their walls receiv'd, 
His is not found ; therefore we must account 

him 
With those, who, shrouded in an unknown 

fate , 
Are as the dead lamented, as the dead. 
Forever from our worldly care dismiss'd. 
Aur. Lamented he shall be ; but from my 
care 
Dismiss'd as are the dead — that is inipossible. 
Ter. Nay, listen to advice so wise and need- 
ful.: 
It is the friend of Ermingard who says. 
Let him vpithin thy mind be as the dead. 
Aur. My heart repels the thought : it cap- 
not be. 
No ; till his corse bereft of life is found ; 
Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd 

to me. 
Within my breast he shall be living still. 
Ter. Wilt thou yet vainly watch night af- 
ter night, 



412 



THE BEACON : ^ MUSICAL DRAMA. 



To guide his bark who never will return ? 
JluT. Wlio never will return ! And think- 
est thou 

To bear me down with such presumptuous 
words ? 

Heaven makes mc strong against thee. 

There is a Power above, that calms the 
storm ; 

Restrains the mighty; gives the dead to 
life :— 

I will in humble faith my watch still keep ; 

Force only shall restrain me. 

(Jar. Force never shall, thou noble, ardent 
Spirit ! 

Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt 
me 

To think it will be justified. 

Aur. Ha ! say'st thou so ? A blessing rest 
upon thee 

For these most cheering words ! Some guar- 
dian power 

Whispers within thee. No; we'll not des- 
pair. 

Enter Ulrick. 
Ul. {to Gar.) Your dismal mission is, I trust 
fulfiird; 
Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind 
Tliat I entreat you to retire ; for they 
Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left 
To grieve without constraint. 

Jlur. Thanks for your kind concern, most 
noble Sir : 
And, when we needs must sorrow for the 

dead. 
We'll freely grieve without constraint. But 

know 
Until our corse is found, we ring no knell. 
If then your car for funeral dirges long, 
Go to some other bower ; hope still is here. 
Ul. Ha i still perversely bent ! what can 
convince thee .'' 
This is distraction. 

.Bur. Be it what it may, 

It owns not thy authority- Brave Youth, 

{to Gar.) 
I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledg- 
ment. 
I'll find another time to give thee thanks. 

[Etxn: , Jolloioed by Viol, and Ed. 
Ul. Such hope is madness ; yield we to her 
humour .' 
No ; she must be to sober reason brought 
By steady, firm controul. 

Gar. Mean you by this, my Lord, a forc'd 

controul ? 
Ul. Who shall inquire my meaning.' 
Gar. The holy Legate, patron of th' op- 
press'd. 
Will venture to inquire. 

Ul. Aye, as his nephew, thou presumest, I 
see. 
But know, bold Youth, I am unused to 
threats. 
Gar. Yet brook them as you may. 1 take 
my leave. [Exit. 

jylanent Ulrick and Terentia. 



Ul. Did I not say these cursed meddling 

priests — 

These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they 
come, 

Would rule and power usurp ? Woe worth, 
the hour 

That brought them here ! — And for this head- 
strong maniac 

As such, I will 

Tcr. . Hush, hush I these precincts quit. 

It is not well, here to expose to view 

Thy weak ungovern'd paSsions. Thou'rt ob- 
served ; 

Retire with me, where skreen'd from every 

With more possession of thy ruffled mind. 
Thou may'st consider of thy wayward state. 

[Exeunt, 



ACT II. 
Scene I. — a feat spot of ground on 

THE TOP OF A CI.IFF, WITH BROKEN 
CRAGCrY ROCKS ON EACH SIDE, AND 
A LARGE MASS OF ROCK IN THE MID- 
DLE, ON WHICH A GREAT FIRE OF 
VrOOD IS BURNING; A DARK SEA IN 
THE BACK ground: THE SCENE TO 
RECEIVE NO LIGHT BUT FROM THE 
FIRE. 

Two Fishermen are discovered watching the 
fire, and supplying it with wood-. 

SONG. 

First Fisherman. 

" High is the tower, and the watch-dogs bay, 

And the flitting owlets shriek ; 
I see tliee wave thy mantle grey, 

But I cannot hear thee speak. 

" O, are they from the east or west 

The tidings he bears to me ? 
Or from the land that I love best, 

From the knight of the north countree ?" 

Swift down the winding stair she rush'd, 

Like a gust of the summer wind ; 
Her steps were light, her breath was hush'd, 

And she dared not look behind. 

She past by stealth the narrow door, . 

The postern way also, 
And thought each bush her robe that tore, 

The grasp of a warding foe. 

And she has climb'd the moat so steep. 

With chilly dread and fear, 
While th' evening fly hunijn'd dull and deep, 

Like a wardmaii whisp'ring near. 

" Now, who art thou, thou Palmer tall, 

Who beckonest so to me 1 
Art thou from that dear and distant hall ? 

Art thou from the north countree ?" 



THE BEACON: A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



413 



He rais'd his hood with warj wile, 

That cover'd his raven hair, 
And a manlier facfe and a sweeter smile • 

Ne'er greeted lady fair. 

" My coal-black steed feeds in the brake. 

Of gen'rous blood and true ; 
He'll soon the nearest frontier make, 

Let they who list pursue. 

" Thy pale cheek shows an alter'd mind, 

Thine eye the blinding tear; 
Come not with me if aught behind 

Is to thy heart more dear. 

" Thy fire and dame are in that hall 

Thy friend, thy mother's son ; 
Come not with me, if oneo'them all 

E'er loved thee as I have done." 

The lady mounted the coal-black steed, 

Behind her knight I ween. 
And they have pass'd thro' brake and mead. 

And plain, and woodland green. 

But hark, behind ! the warders shout, 

And the hasty larums ring ; 
And the mingled sound of a gath'ring rout 

The passing air doth bring. 

" O noble steed ! now 'quit thee well. 

And prove thy gen'rous kind! 
That fearful sound doth louder swell, 

It is not far behind. 

" The frontier's near — a span the plain, 

Press on and do not fail ! 
Ah ! on our steps fell horsemen gain, 

I hear their ringing mail." 

2rf Fish. Tush, man ! give o'er} thy ballads 

have 110 end, 
When ihou art in the mood. I hear below 
A sound of many voices on the shore : 
Some boat, belike, forced by the drifting cur- 
rent 
Upon the rocks, may be in jeopardy. 

\st Fish. 'Tis all a mock to cut my ditty 

short. 
Tkou hast no mind to hear hovv it befel 
That those two lovers were by kinsman stern 
O'erta'en ; and how the knight, by armed foes 
Beset, a bloody combat bravely held, 
And was the while robb'd of his lady fair, 
And how in Paynim land they met again. 
How, as a Page, disguised, she sought her 

knight, 
Left on the field as lifeless. How she cheer'd 

him ; 
And how they married were, and home in 

state 

2rf Fish. Ha' done, ha' done ! a hundred 

times I've heard it. 
My Grandam lull'd me with it on her lap 
Full many a night ; and as my father sat. 
Mending his nets upon the beach, he sung 

it. 
I would I knew my prayers as well. — But 

hark I 
1 hear a noise again. 



{Goes to the bottom of the stage, as if he tcerc 
looking down to the sea.) 

Along the shore 
I see lights moving swiftly. 

\st Fish. Some fishermen, who, later than 
the rest, 
Their crazy boat bring in ; while, to the beach, 
With flaming brands, their wives and children 

run. 
Rare sight, indeed, to take thy fancy so '. 

{Sings again.) 

No fish stir in our heaving net. 

And the sky is dark, and the night is wet ; 

And we must ply the lusty oar, 

For the tide is ebbing from the shore j 

And sad are they whose faggots burn, 

So kindly stored for our return. 

Our boat is small and the tempest raves, 
And nought is heard but the lashing waves, 
And the sullen roar of the angry sea. 
And the wild winds pipiiig'drearily ; 
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain, 
We'll bless our blazing hearth's again. 

Push bravely, Mates ! Our guiding star 
Now from its towerlet streameth far ; 
And now along the uearing strand. 
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand : 
Before the midnight watch is past, • 
We'll quaff our bowl and mock the blast. 

Bast, (icithout.) Holla, good Mate ! Thou 
who so bravely sing'st ! 
Come down, I pray thee. 
1st Fish. Who art thou who call'st.' 

2d Fish. I -know the voice; 'tis Sign'or 

Bastiani. 
1st Fish. What I he, at such an hour, upon 
thechfl"!' . 
(Calling doicn.) I cannot come. If, from my 

station here. 
This fire untended, I were found ; good sooth ! 
I had as lief the luckless friar be, 
Who spilt the Abbot's wine. 
2rf Fish. I'll go to him. [Exit. 

\st Fish, {muttering to himself.) Aye; 
leave m}'' watch, indeed ! a rare en- 
treaty ! 

Enter Bastiani. 
Bast. Wilt thou not go ? A boat near to tlie 
shore. 
In a most perilous state, calls for assistance.' 
Who is like thee, good Stephen, bold and 

skilful .' 
Haste to its aid, if there be pity in thee. 
Or any Christian grace. 1 will, meantime, 
Thy beacon watch; and, should the lady 

come, 

Excuse thy absence. Haste ; make no reply. 

ist Fish. I will ; God help us all ! [Exit. 

Bast. Here is, indeed, a splendid noble fire 

Left me in ward. It makes the darkness 

round. 
To its fierce light oppos'd, seem thick and 

palpable, 
And clos'd o'er head, like to the pitcliy cope 



414 



THE BEACON : A MUSICAL DRYMA. 



Of some vast cavern. Near at hand, me- 

thinks, 
Soft female voices speak : I'll to my station. 
{liclircs from the front of the stage behind the 
fire.) 

Enter Aurora, Tekentia and Viola. 

Viol. A rousing light ! Good Stephen hath 

full well 
Obey'd your earnest bidding. — Fays, and 

witches 
Might round its blaze their midnight revelry 
Right fitly keep. 

Tcr. Aye ; thou lov'st wilds and darkness, 
And fire and storms, and things unsooth and 

strange : 
This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on 

Thy face a witch-like eagerness assumes. 
Viol. I'll be a goblin then, and round it 
dance. 
Did not Aurora say we thus should hold 
This nightly vigil. Yea, such were her words. 
Aur. They were light bubbles of some 
mantling thought, 
That now is flat and spritless ; and yet. 
If thou art so inclined, ask not my leave. 
Dance if thou wilt. 

Viol. Nay, not alone, sweet sooth ! 

Witches, tliemselves, soma fiend-like partners 
find. 
Tcr. And so may'st thou. Look yonder; 
near the flame 
A crested figure stands. That is not Stephen. 
Aur. (eagerly.) A crested figure ! Where ? 
O call to it ! (Bast, comes for loard.) 
Ter. 'Tis Bastiani. 

Aur. Aye ; 'tis Bastiani : 

'Tis he, or any one ; 'tis ever thus; 
So is my fancy niock'd. 

Bast. If I otTend you, Madam, 'tis unwil- 
lingly. 
Stephen has for a while gone to the beach 
To help some fishermen, who, as I guess, 
Against the tide would force their boat to land 
He'll soon return; meantime, I did intreat 

him 
To let me watch his Beacon. Pardon me ; 
I had not else intruded ; tho' full oft 
I've clamber'd o'er these cYiffs, ev'n at this 

hour. 
To see the ocean from its sabled breast 
The flickering gleam of these bright flames 
return. 
Jlur. Make no excuse, I pray thee. 1 am 
told 
By good Terentia thou dost wish me well, 
Tho" Ulrick long has been thy friend. I know 
A wanderer on the seas in early youth 
Thou wast, and still can'st feel for all storm- 
toss 'd 
On that rude (dement. ' 

Bast. 'Tis true, fair Lady : I have been, 
ere now. 
Where such a warning light, sent from the 
shore, 



Had saved some precious lives ; which makes 

the task, 
1 now fulfil, more grateful. 
Aur. How many leagues from shore may 
such a light 
By the benighted mariner be seen .' 

Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it 
faintly. 
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering 
From some cav'd rock tha,t brows the dreary- 
waste ; 
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-honse. 
Which through the silent night the traveller 

spies 
Upon his doubtful way. 

Viol. Fie on such images ! 
Thou should'st have liken'd it to things more 

seemly. 
Thou might'st have said the peasant's even-. 

ing fire 
That from his upland cot, thro' winter's, 

gloom, 
What time his wife their ev'ning meal pre- 
pares. 
Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his 

heart ; 
Or signal-torch, that from my Lady's bower 
Tells wand'ring knights the revels are be-. 

gun; 
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house 
O' long October nights, thro' the still air 

Looks rousingly. ■ — To have our gallant 

Beacon 
Ta'en for a lazar house ! 

Bast. Well, Maiden ; as thou wilt ; thy gen- 
tle Mistress 
Of ajl these things may choose what likes her 

best. 
To pc^int more clearly how her noble fire 
The distant seamen cheers, who bless the 

while 
The hand that kindled it. 

Aur. Shall I be bless'd 

By wand'ring men returning to their homes ." 
By those from shipwreck sav'd, again to cheer 
Their wives, their friends, their kindred .' 

Blessed by those I • 

And shall it not a blessing call from heaven ? 
It will; my heart leaps at the very thought, 
The seaman's blessing rests upon my head 

To charm my wand'rer home. 

Heap on more wood : 
Let it more brightly blaze. — Good Bastiani, 
.Hie to thy task, and we'll assist thee gladlj'. 
{As they begin to oceupy themselves ^cith the 
fire, the sound of distant voices, singing in 
harmony, is heard under the stage as if as- 
cending the cliff.) 
Aur. What may it be ? 
Viol. The songs of paradise, 

But that our savage rocks and gloomy night 
So ill agree with peaceful soothing bliss. 

Ter. Wo blessed spirits ir) these evil days 
Hymn, thro' the stilly darkness, strains of 
grace. 
Aur. N;iy list ; it comes again. 

( Voices heard nearer.) 



•■THE BEACON 1 A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



415 



Tcr. The mingled sound comes nearer, and 
betrays 
Voices of mortal men. 

Viol. In such sweet harmony ! 

I never heard the like. 
Jlur. They must be good and holy who can 
utter 
Such heavenly sounds. 

Bast. I've surely heard before 

This solemn chorus chaunted by the knights, 
The holy brothers of Jerusalem. 
It is a carrol sung by them full ofl, 
When saved from peril dire of flood or field. 
. Aur. The knights of blest St. John from 
Palestine ! 
Alas ! why feel I thus .' knowing too well 
They cannot bring the tidings I would hear. 
{Chorus rises again very near.) 
Viol. List, list ! they've gain'd the summit 
of the cliff: 
They are at hand ; their voices are distinct ; 
Yea, ev'n the words they sing. 

{A solemn Song or Hymn, sung in harmony 
heard icithout.) 

Men preserv'd from storm and tide 
And fire and battle raging wide ; 
What shall subdue our steady faith, 
Or of our heads a hair shall skathe ? 
Men preserv'd, in gladness weeping, 
Praise Him, who hath alway our souls in holy 
keeping. 

And whereso'er in earth or sea 
Our spot of rest at last shall be ; 
. Our swords, in many a glorious field. 
Surviving heroes still shall wield. 
While we our faithful toils are reaping 
With Him, who hath alway our souls in holy 
keeping. 

Enter six Knights of St. John of Jerusalem in 
procession, with their followers behind them, 
who don't advance upon the stage, but remain 
partly conceal'd behind the rocks. 
Jlur. Speak to them, Bastiani; thou'rl a 
soldier ; 
Thy mind is more composed. — I pray thee do. 
{Motioning Bast, to accost them.) 
Bast. This Lady, noble Warriors, greets 
you all, 
And offers you such hospitality 
•As this late hour and scanty means afford. 
Wilt please ye round this blazing fire to rast ? 
After such perilous tossing on the waves, 
■ You needs must be forspent. 

'1st Knight. We thank you, Sir, and this 
most noble dame, 
Whcise Beacon hath from shipwreck sav'd us. 

Driven 
By adverse w^nds, too near your rocky coast, 
Warn'd by its friendly light, we stood to sea : 
But soon discov'ring that our crazy bark 
Had sprung a dang'rous leak, we took our 

boat 
And made for shore. The nearest point of 

land 
Beneath this cliff, with peril imminent. 



By help of some good fishermen we gained; 
And here, in God's good mercy, safe we are 
With grateful hearts. 

Aur. We praise that mercy also 

Which hath preserv'd you. 

1st Knight. Lady, take our thanks. 

And may the vessel of that friend beloved. 
For whom you watch, as we have now been 

told, ■ 
Soon to your shore its welcome freight con- 
vey. 
Aur. Thanks for the wish; and may its 
prayers be heard. 
Renowned men ye are ; holy and brave ; 
In every field of honour and of arms 
Some of your noble brotherhood are found : 
Perhaps the valiant knights 1 now behold, 
Did on that luckless day against the Souldain 
With brave De Vlileneuve for the cross con- 
tend 
If this be so, you can, perhaps, inform me 
Of one who in the battle fought, whose fate 
Is still unknown, 

1st Knight. None of us all, fair Dame, so 
honour'd were 
As in that field to be, save this young knight. 
Sir Bertram, wherefore in thy mantle lapt, 
Stand'st thou so far behind ? Speak to him, 

Lady : 
For in that battle he right nobly fought, 
And may, belike, wot of the friend you men- 
tion'd. 
Aur. (going u-p eagerly to the young Knight.) 
Did'st thou there fight .' — then surely thou 

did'st know 
The noble Ermingard, who from this isle 

With valiant Conrad went : 

What fate had he upon that dismal day .' 
Young Kt. Whate'er his fate in that fell 
fight might be, 
He now is as the dead. 

Aur. Is as the dead! ha! then he is not dead: 
He's living still. O tell me — tell me this ! 
Say he is still alive ; and tho' he breathe 
In the foul pest-house ; tho' a wretched 

wand'rer. 
Wounded and maim'd ; yea, tho' his noble 

form 
With chains and stripes and slav'ry be dis- 
graced. 
Say he is living still, and I will bless thee. 
Thou know'st — full well thou know'st, but 

wilt not speak. 
What means that heavy groan P For love of 

God, 
Speak to me I 
{Tears the mantle from his face, with which he 

had concealed it.) 
My Ermingard ! My blessed Ermingard ! 
Tiiy very living self, restored again I 
Why turn from me ? 

Er. Ah ! call'st thou this restored ? 

Aur. Do I not gr^sp thy real living hand .' 

Dear, dear ! — so dear ! most dear ! — my lost, 

my found I 
Thou turn'st and weep'st; art thou not so to 
me? 



416 



THE BEACON : A MUSICAL DRAMA, 



Er. All! would I were ! alas, alas! I'm 
lost; 
Sever'd from thee for ever. 

Aur. How so' what mean such words? 
Er. {shaking his head, and pointing to the 
cross on /lis mantle.) Look on this 
emblem of a holy vow 
Which binds- and weds me to a heaVenly 

love : 
We are, my sweet Aurora, far divided ; 
Our bliss is wreck'd forever. 
Aur. No ; tliou art still alive, and that is 
bliss. 
FeAv moments since, what would I not have 

sacrificed, 
To know that in the lapse of many years 

1 should again behold thee .'' — I had beQn 

How strongly art thou moved ! — Thou heed'st 
me not. 
Tcr. (to Aur.) Were it not better he should 
leave this spot ? 
Let me conduct him to my quiet bower. 
Rest and retirement may compose his mind. 
Jlur^ Aye, thou art right, Terentia. 
Ter. (to the other Knights.) Noble Knights, 
And these your followers ! gentle Bastiani 
Will to a place of better comfort lead you. 
Where ye sliall find some hospitable cheer, 
And couches for repose. — HaVe we your 

leave 
That your companion be a little time 
Ta'en from your company .'' 

\st Knight. You have, good I^ady ? 

Most readily we grant it. — Heaven be with 

•you. 
And this your lovely charge ! 

( To Bast.) Sir, to your guidance 
We yield ourselves right gladly. 
[Exeunt Knights, &c. btj a path heticeen Hie 
rocks, and Aurora ajid Ermingard, 
&c. hij another jtath. 

Scene II. — an anti-room in the house 

OF AURORA. 

Enter Garcio, beckoning the Page, who pres- 
ently enters by the opposite side. 

Gar. Come hither, little Friend, who did'st 
before 
Serve me so willingly. Wilt thou fronxme 
Bear to Sir Ermingard a friendly message ; 
And say his old companion 

Page. Nay, 1 dare not. 

The holy legate and the pope besides 
Might not disturb him now ; for dame Teren- 
tia 
Hath so decreed. He is in her apartment, . 
And yonder is the door. 

(Pointijtg off the stage.) 

Gar. From which ev'n now 

1 saw thee tiu-n .' . ' . 

Page. I listen'd not for harm. 

Qa.T. Do I accuse thee, Boy ? Is he alone ? 
Or is thy fjady with him .' 

Page. That I know not. 

Do folks groan heaviest when they are alone .- 



Gar. Full oft' they do ; for then without 
restraint 
They utter what they feel. 

Page. Then, by my beard, I think be be 
alone ! 
For as I slipped on tiptoe to the door, 
I heard him groan so deeply ! 
Gar. Thou heard'st him groan ? 
Page. Aye ; deeply. 

I thought when lie return 'd, we should be 

merry : 
So starting up at the good tidings, quickly 
All darkling as I was, I don'd my clothes ; 
But, by my beard ! I'd go to bed again. 
Did 1 not long most curiously to know 
What will betide. 

Gar. Speak softly. Boy; thou, and thy 
beard to boot. 
Will hadly fare if Ulrick should o'erhcar thee. 
I know his angry voice : he is at hand. 
Page. Where shall I go ^ — He will not tar- 
ry here : 
He will but pass to the adjoining hall. 
In this dark nook I'll hide me from his sight 
Lest he should chide me. 

(Retires behind the pillar.) 
Gar. Is there room for me ? 

He'll greet me too with little courtesy 
If I remain to front him. 

(Retires behind the pillar also.) 

Enter Ulrick and Bastiani, speaking as they 
enter. 

Ul. And still thou say'st forbear I 
Bast. Pass on, my Lord. 

Ul. No, by the holy rood ! I'll keep in sight 
Of that accursed door which gave him en- 
trance. 
An hour's sand well hath run, which undis- 

turb'd 
They have in converse or endearments spent. 
And yet I nmst forbear ! 

Bast. They have not told the truth who 
told you so ; 
It is not yet so long. 

Ul. It is ! it is ! 

I have within these walls, who for my service 
More faithfully have watch'd than Bastiani— 
Aye, or Terentia either. 

Bast. Wrong us not. 

Since Ermingard returns by holy vows 
So bound, that as a rival to your love. 
You may, with honest thoughts of her you 

love, 
No more consider him ; all jealousy 
Within your noble breast should be extinct. 
Then think not to disturb these few short mo- 
ments 
Of unavailing sorrow ; that were cruel. 
Ul. Thou pitiest others well ; I am tor- 
mented. 
And no one pities me. — That cursed Beacon ! 
I said in vain this night should be the last : 
It was a night too much : the sea had now 
RoU'd o'er his lifeless corse ; I been at peace. 
Bast. For mercy, good my Lord ! curb such 
fell thoughts : 



THE BEACON t A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



417 



They bear no kindred to your better nature. 
Ul. My better nature ! Mock me not with 

words ; 
Who loves like me, no nature hath but one, 
And that so keen Would the engulphing 

waves 
Had fifty fathom deep entombed him ! 

Bast. Speak not so loud : pass on ; we are 

within 
The observation of a prying household. 
Pass on, and presently I'll bring you notice 
Of what you would. I pray you stop not 

here ! 
[Exeunt Ul. and Bast, ichilc Gar. and Page 

come from their conceahnent. 
Page. He would have chid me shrewdly. 
Gar. He is indeed an angry ruthless man, 
And Bastiani no slight task will have 
To keep his wrath from mischief. To the 

legate 
I'll hie me straight, and ask his better coun- 
sel : 
So fare thee well, sweet Child. 

Page. Nay, take me with you; I'm afraid to 

stay. 
I can my prayers and an Ave-Maria say: 
The legate will not chide me. 

Gar. Nay, stay behind ; thou art secure, 

poor Elph ! 
I'll soon return again. [Exeunt. 

Scene III.— the apartment of teren- 

TIA. 

Ermingard and Aurora are discovered with 
Terentia, who is withdrawn to a distance 
from them. Ermingard is seated with his 
body thrown back, and his face covered with 
both his hands, while Aurora stands by him 
in the attitude of one who is entreating or 
soothing him. 

Erm. O cease ! Thy words, thy voice, thy 
hand on mine, 
That touch so dearly felt, do but enhance 

An agony too great. Untoward fate I 

Thus to have lost thee ! 

Jlur. Say not, thou hast lost me. 

Heaven will subdue our minds, and we shall 

still. 
With what is spar'd us from our wreck of 

bliss. 
Be happy. 

Erm. Most unblest, untoward fate ! 

After that hapless battle, where in vain 
I courted death, I kept my name conceal 'd. 
Ev'n brave De Villeneune, master of our 

Order, 
When he received my vows, did pledge his 

faith 
Not to declare it. Thus I kept myself 
From all communication with these shores, 
Perversely forwarding my rival's will. 
O blind and credulous fool I 

Jlur. Nay, do not thus upbraid thyself: 
Heaven will'd it. 
Be not so keenly moved : there still is left 
52 



What to the soul is dear — We'll still be hap- 

py- 

Erm. The chasten'd pilgrim o'er his lady's 
grave 
Sweet tears may shed, and may without re- 
proach 
Thoughts of his past love blend with thoughts 

of heaven. 
He whom the treach'ry of some faithless maid 
Hath robb'd of bliss, may, in the sturdy pride 
Of a wrong'd man, the galhng ill endure; 
But sever'd thus from thee, so true, so noble, 
By vows that all the soul's devotion claim. 
It makes me feel — may God forgive the 

crime ! 
A very hatred of all saintly things. 
Fool — rash and credulous fool ! to lose thee 
thus ! 
Aur. Nay, say not so : thou still art mine. 
Short while 
I would have given my whole of life besides 
To've seen but once again thy passing form — 
Thy face — thine eyes turn'd on me for a mo- 
ment ; 
Or only to have heard thro' the still air 
Thy voice distinctly call me, or the sound 
Of thy known steps upon my lonely floor : 
And shall I then, holding thy living hand 
In love and honor, say, thou art not mine ? 
Erm. {Sliaking his head.) This state — this 

sacred badge ! 
Aur. O no ! that holy cross upon thy breast 
Throws such a charm of valorous sanctity 
O'er thy lov'd form ; my thoughts do forward 

glance 
To deeds of such high fame by tliee achiev'd. 
That ev'n metliinks the bliss of wedded love 
Less dear, less noble is than such strong 

bonds 
As may, without reproach, unite us still. 

Erm. O creature of a gen'rous constancy! 
Thou but the more distractest me ! — Fool, 

fool ! 
( Starting from his seat, and pacing to and fro 

distractedly.) 
Mean, misbelieving fool ! — 1 thought her false, 
.Cred'lous alone of evil : — I have lost, 
And have deserv'd to lose her. 

Aur. Oh ! be not thus 1 Have I no power 
to soothe thee ? 
See, good Terentia weeps, and fain would 

try 
To speak thee comfort. 

Ter. (coming forward.) Aye ; bethink thee 
well, 
Most noble Ermingard, Heaven grants tliee 

still 
All that is truly precious of her love, — 
Her true and dear regard. 
Erm. Then Heaven forgive ray black ingrat- 
itude, 
For I am most unthankful ! 

Ter. Nay, consider, 

Her heart is thine : you are in mind united. 
Erm. United! In the farthest nook o' th' 
earth 
1 may in lonely solitude reflect, 



418 



THE BEACONi A MUSICAL DRAMA. 



That in some spot— some happier land she 

lives 
And thinks of mo. Is this to be united? 

Aur. 1 cannot, in a Page's surtout clad, , 
Thy steps attend as other maids have done 
To other Knights. 

Erm. No, by the holy rood ! 

Thou can'st not, and thou should'st not. Ra- 
ther would I, 
Dear as thou art, weep o'er thee in thy grave 
Than see thee so degraded. 

Jl^ir. Hear me out. 

1 cannot so attend thee — noon and eve 
Thy near companion be ; but 1 have he^rd 
Tliat, near the sacred houses of your Order, 
Convents of maids devout in Holy Land 
Establish'd are — maids who in deeds of char- 

^ . }^^ 

To pilgrims and to all in warfare maim'd. 

In sacred warfare for the holy cross, 
Are deem'd the humble partners of your zeal. 
Erm. Aye, such there are, but wliat avail- 

eth this ? 
Aur. There will I dwell, avow'd and hum- 
ble sister. 
We shall not far be sever'd. The same winds 
That do o' nights thro' your still cloisters 

Our quiet cells visiting with mournful har- 
mony. 

Shall lull my pillow too. Our window'd 
towers 

Shall sometimes shew me on the neighbouring 
plains, 

Amidst thy brave companions, thy mail'd 
form 

Crested with glory, on thy pawing steed 

Returning from the wars. And when at 
last 

Thou art in sickness laid — who will forbid 

The dear sad pleasure — like a holy bride 

I'll by thy death-bed stand, and look to heav- 
en, 

Where all bless'd union is. O ! at the 
thought, 

Methinks this span of life to nothing shrinks. 

And we are bless'd already. Thou art silent : 

Dost thou despise my words .' 
Erm. O no ! speak to me thus : say what 
thou wilt : 

I am subdued. And yet these bursting tears ! 

My heart is rent in twain : I fear — I fear 

I am rebellious still. {Kneeling, and taking 
both her hands between his, and kiss- 
ing thevi toith great devotion.) 

School me or chide me now : do what thou 
wilt : 

1 am resign'd and humble. 

Ter. {advancing to them 2oith alarm.) 

Hear ye that noise without ? — They force the 
door, 

And angry Ulrick comes. 

Erm. {starling frovi his knees fur ioiisly.) 
Thank heaven, this hated rival front to 

front 
Sliall now f'tpose mc I God avenge the riglit ! 



Enter Ulrick, bursting into the room, followed 
by Bastiani. 

Ul. {to Erm.) Vow'd holy Knight; from 
all vain earthly love 
Pure and divided ; in a lady's chamber 
Do we jjurprise thee ? Quit it instantly : 
It is a place for thee unfit : and know. 
In sacred wardship will I keep that maid. 
jBr?«. In sacred wardship ! O unblusliing 
face ! 
What of thy baseness, treachery and falsehood 
I could declare, my choaking voice forbids, 
Which utterance hath not. — Here's a ready 
tongue — {drawing his sword.) 

Defend thee then, and heaven defend the right.' 
{They both draic and Jight furiously, Bastiani 
endeavoring in vain la interpose ; when the 
Legate and his train, toith Garcio and the 
Knights of St. John, enter and separate 
them.) 

Leg. Put up your weapons : to the holy 
church 
This cause belongs, and to her high award 
I charge you both that you in all humility 
Submit. Lord Ulrick, to the Pope perforce 
You must account of this your wardship give, 
Or by yourself in person, or your deputy. 
To Rome forthwith dispatch'd. 

(Ul. boics sullenly.) 
As for the lady, to my guardian care, 
Till we before the holy Father come. 
She must commit herself. And thou, Sir 

Ermingard, 
Shalt to the sovereign Pontiff and the patron 
Of thy most valiant order, fully shew 
Wherein thou'st been aggriev'd. If tiic 

bless'd cross 
Thou hast assum'd, supposing other vows 
That did before engage tiiee, were annull'd, 
By false reports deceived; the holy Urban, 
Our wise enlighten'd father, will, I trust, 
A dispensation grant, that shall empower thee 
To do'ff with honor this thy sacred mantle, 
And in its stead a bridegroom's robe assume. 
(Ermingard and Aurora both embrace the Le- 
gate's knees, v:ho raises them up gently.) 
It is enough; forbear, forbear, my Children; 
I am too richly thank'd. 

And now we must with sober minds confer : 
For when the wind is fair, we sail for Rome. 
Some days, perliaps, it may adversely blow — 
Perhaps some weeks ; for I have known it oft 
Hold vessels bound. 
Aur. { tossing iip her arms joyfully as she 
speaks.) 
No ; it will change to-morrow. 

Erm. Dear ardent Soul ! can'st thou com- 
mand the winds .' 

(Aur. shrinks bark ashamed.) 
Leg. Blush not, sweet Maid ; nor clieck thy 
ardent tiioughts ; 
That gen'rous buoyant spirit is a power 
Which in the virtuous mind doth all things 

conquer. 
It bears tlie hero on to arduous deeds : 
It lifts the saint to lieavea. {Curtain drops.) 



PREFACE TO THE BRIDE 



To see the mind of a child awaking by de- 
grees from the dreamy indistinctness of infan- 
cy to a clearer observation of what it beholds 
around, and a capacity to compare and to 
reason on the differences and resemblances 
which it perceives, is a most pleasing and in- 
teresting sight; so in a far greater degree 
does the rousing a race or nation from its in- 
fancy of ignorance and delusion, interest and 
excite every mind of any feeling or reflection. 
It was from this natural sympathy that I heard 
with the most sensible pleasure, some months 
ago, of the intended translation of my Drama, 
called " The Martyr," into the Cingalese lan- 
guage, as a work which might have some 
good effects upon a people of strong passions, 
emerging from a state of comparative barbar- 
ism, and whose most effectual mode of re- 
ceiving instruction is frequently that of dra- 
matic lepresentation, according to the fashion 
of their country . — A gentleman to whom Cey- 
lon owes the great benefits conferred on a 
people by the pure and enlightened adminis- 
tration of justice, and to whose strenuous ex- 
ertions they are also indebted for the invalua- 
ble institution of a trial b}' native juries,* en- 
tertained this opinion of the Drama in ques- 
tion, and afterwards did me tiie farther hon- 
our to suppose that I might write something 
of the kind, more peculiarly appropriate to 
the circumstances of that island, which would 
naturally have a stronger moral effect on the 
minds of its inhabitants. Pleased to be made, 
in the humblest degree, an instrument for 
their good, 1 most readily promised to endeav- 
our at least to do so. And when they read 
this piece, or when it is brought before them 
in representation, they will regard it as a 
proof that their former judge and friend, 
though now absent and far separated from 
them, still continues to take a deep interest 
in their welfare. So considered, it will not 
fail to make an impression on their minds to 
which its own power or merit would be al- 
together unequal 

But should the individual effects of this 
Drama be ever so inconsiderable, the profits 
arising from its publication in England, may 
be the means of procuring translations hito 
the Cingalese language of more able and use- 
ful works, and make, as it were, a first though 

* The measures above alluded to are detailed 
in the Asiatic Journal for June, 1G27. They are 
the different measures which were carried into 
effect by Sir Alexander Johnston, when he was 
President of His Majesty's Council in Ceylon, 
and of which Mr. Brougham made honourable 
mention in his speech on the Present state of the 
Law, in February, 1S28. 



a low step to an invigorating moral eminence- 
In these days, when many excellent men are 
striving at the expense of health and ease, 
and all that is valued by the world, to spread 
the light of Christianity in the East ; when 
the lamented Bishop Heber, with the disin- 
terested devotion of an Apostle, joined to the 
mildness; liberality, ability, courteousness, and 
good sense which promote and grace every 
laudable undertaking, has proved himself to 
be the genuine and noble follower of his 
blessed Master, — who will not be willing to 
lend some aid and encouragement to so ex- 
cellent a purpose .' I hope, and strongly hope, 
that good will be derived, even from such a 
feeble etTort as the present ; and that the time 
will come when the different races of the 
East will consider every human creature as a 
brother ; while Englishmen, under whose 
rule or protection they may live, will contemn 
that policy which founds its security upon 
ignorance. All past experience is unfavour- 
able to the unmanly and ungenerous maxim. 
And in the present time, when perfect undis- 
turbed ignorance cannot be obtained, the pre- 
servation of it in a middle state, to take no 
higher view of the subject, will be found to 
be a very precarious and expensive means of 
governing. But do I not wrong my country- 
men, connected with the East, in supposing 
that the great proportion of them do entertain 
such narrow views ? Of this at least I am 
thoroughly persuaded, that if such a suppo- 
sition does not wrong them at present, it will 
do so grievously some years hence : for the 
ignorance I speak of is that which [:tands op- 
posed to the useful, simple learning which 
promotes industry and charity. Of those su- 
.peifluous fantastical acquirements which the 
overstrained refinement of modern plans of 
education seems anxious to extend to the low- 
er classes of society, I do not speak. 

But I must beg leave to retract what 1 have 
said above as to making a first step in this de- 
sirable progress. One of Mrs. Hannah More's 
sacred Dramas was translated into the lan- 
guage of Ceylon, several, I believe, many 
years ago, and was much liked and admired 
by the natives. A second or third, or any 
rank, so as it be a step at all, is honour enough 
for me. 

And now let me address a few words to 
those whom I shall never see, whom many, 
many leagues of ocean divide from any spot 
of earth on which my foot hath ever rested 
or shall ever rest, — those for whose especial 
use the following Drama was written, and in 
wiiose country the story of it is supposed to 
have happened. 

I endeavour to set before you that leading 



420 



PREFACE TO THE BRIDE. 



precept of the Christian religion which dis- 
tinguishes it from all other religions, the for- 
giveness of injuries. A bold and fiery-tem- 
pered people is apt to consider it as mean and 
pusillanimous to forgive ; and I am persuaded 
that many a vindictive and fatal blow has been 
inflicted by those, whose hearts at the same 
moment have yearned to pardon their enemies. 
But Christians, who, notwithstanding the very 
imperfect manner in which they obey and 
have obeyed the precepts and example of 
Jesus Christ, do still acknowledge them, and 
have their general conduct influenced by 
them, — are they a feeble and unhonoured race .'' 
Look round you in your own land, in other 
countries most connected with your own, and 
you will acknowledge that this is not the case. 
You will therefore, I hope, receive in good 
part the moral of my story. 

I wished to have found some event in the 
real history of Ceylon that might have served 
as a foundation for my Drama ; but not proving 
successful in my search, which, circumstanced 
as I am, could not but be very imperfect, 1 
have of necessity had recourse to imagination. 
But there is one person or character in it 
which is truly your own, though placed in an 
imaginary situation, and any country in the 
world might be proud to claim it. — " Remem- 
ber," said the son of the first Adigar of the 
Candian country to his elder brother, who 
had clung for protection to his wretched moth- 



er, when she and all her children were con- 
demned to death by a late king of Candy, — 
" Remember tiiat we are the sons of a brave 
man, and should die as becomes his sons ; I 
will be the first to receive the stroke of the 
headsman." The land which hath produced 
a child so brave and noble, will also, under 
favourable circumstances, be fruitful of brave 
and noble men ; and in proportion as her sons 
become generous and humane, they will also 
increase in valour and dignity. The little 
Samar, then, of my play is what the son of 
the first Adigar would have been in his place, 
and as such I commend him to your favour 
and attention. 

The views which I have given of the reli- 
gion of Juan De Creda are true to all that you 
will find in the history and precepts of Jesus 
Christ, whenever you are inclined to read 
tliose books of our sacred Scripture which we 
call the Gospels, containing his history, and 
written by men who were his immediate fol- 
lowers and disciples, being eye and ear wit- 
nesses of all that they relate; and let no pe- 
culiar opinions or creeds of different classes 
of Christians ever interfere with what you 
there perceive plainly and generally taught. 
It was given for the instruction of the simple 
and unlearned ; as such receive it. 

Wishing you all prosperity as a brave and 
virtuous people, — for brave ye are, and vir- 
tuous I hope ye will become, — I bid you fare- 
well. 



THE BRIDE. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



MEN. 
Rasinga. 

Samarkoon, his Brother-in-law. 
Juan de Creda, a Spanish Physician. 
Samar, a Child, and Son of Rasinga. 

EhLEYPOOLIE, } /-ijE J- r> • 

■x/t ' i Umcers of Rasinga. 

MlHDOONY, J 

Officers, Domestics, Robbers, Spearmen, <^c. 

WOMEN. 

Artina, Wife of Rasinga, and Sister of Sam- 
ar koon. 
Montebesa, Mother of Rasinga. 
The Bridk. 
Sabawatte. 

Nurse, Jtttendants, 8fC. 
Scene in Ceylon. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — scene before the castle 

OF KASINGA. 

Enter Ehleypoolie, meeting Mihdoony and 
two Officers of the Chieftain's household. 

Ehl. Well met, my comrades ! I have words 

for you. 
Mih. We doubt it not, thou'rt bountiful in 

words. 
First Offi. Thou never wast a niggard of 

such treasure. 
Ehl. Ay, but the words which ye shall now 
receive, 
Are not the passing ware of daily traffic, 
But such as in each list'ner's fancy wakes 
Responding sounds, such as from twisted shell 
On sea-beach found, comes to the bending ear 
Of wand'ring child ; sounds strange and full 
of omen. 
Mid. What, evil omen .' storms and hurri- 
canes ? 
Ehl. Fy on't ! A stirring, tinkling, hope- 
ful sound ; 
The ring of scatter'd largess, sweeter far 
Than pipe or chord or cnaunt of forest birds : 
The sound of mummery and merriment : 

The sound 

But wherefore stare ye on me thus ? 
List ; 1 will tell ye what concerns us all. 
Mid. Out with it then ! for it concerns us 
all 
To be no more tormented with thy folly. 
Eld. Our Lord Rasinga wills, that we, brave 
mates, 



With fifty armed followers and their followers, 
Shall be in readiness by early dawn, 
To march in goodly order to the mountains. 
First Offi. 1 like not mountain warfare. 
Second Offi. No, nor I. 
Mih. To force our toilsome way through 
thick rank woods. 
With bleeding Umbs drained by a hundred 
leeches ! 
Ehl. Fye, lazy cowards' shrink ye from ad- 
ventures 
Which gentle lady, in her palanquin, 
Will share with you .'' 

Mill. A gentle lady, say'st thou .' 
Ehl. Yes, ye dull dolts, I say so —Brave 
Rasinga 
Has with one wife, for a good term of years, 
(Lulled by some charm of sorcery) been sat- 
isfied. 
It is good time that he, hke other chiefs, 
Should have a first sultana and a second. 
Or any such arrangement as becomes 
His age and dignity. So, in gay trim 
With°our arm'd band, we by to-morrow's 

dawn 
Must be in readiness. — These are your orders, 
Sent by our lord through me. 

Mih. Who is this honoured lady of the 

mountains ? 
Ehl. Canst thou not guess.' — The aged 
chieftain's daughter, 
Whose petty hold was sack'd by daring rob- 
bers 
Not many weeks gone by . He and his daugh- 
ter 
Were dragg'd as prisoners from their ruin'd 

home. 
In this sad plight, our chief with Samarkoon, 
The vahant brother of his present wife. 
And a good strength of spearmen, met them ; 

charged 
The bootied spoilers, conquer'd and released 
Their wretched prey. — And ye may well sup- 
pose 
The lady's veil, amidst the strange confusion. 
Could not be clutched so close, but that Ra- 
singa 
Might see the lovely face it should have cov- 
ered. 
Mih. O now I understand it ; for, methinks, 
Rasinga had not else brought to his house 
Another bride to share it with Artina. 
(Samarkoon, who has entered behind them mi- 
perceived, and overheard part of the prece- 
ding dialogue, now rushes forward indig- 
nantly. ) 

Sam. Ye foul-tongued knaves, v/ho so belie 
your master ! 
What words are these whicli ye have dared 
to utter .' 



422 



THE BRIDE. 



Eld. My lord, I crave your pardon; I have 

uttered 
TliG orders which Rasinga charged me with, 
Tliat these (pointing to Mihdoony and Officers) 

should straight prepare an armed 

band 
To take their way to-morrow for the moun- 
tains. 
Sam. To bring a brido from thence ? Speak 

out, I charge thee, 
Thou lying knave ! Went not thy words thus 

far ? 
Eld. If tlicy be true or lying words, 1 wot 

not. 
What may within a guarded palanquin 
Be from the mountains brought, 1 may but 

guess. 
Perhaps some speaking bird or jabb'ring ape. 
Sam. (striking him.) Take that — and that — 

thou false audacious slave : 
Dar'st thou to answer me with mockery .' 
[Exit Ehleypoolie sulkily, follotccd by Mih- 
doony and Officers ; Manet Saniarkoon. 
Base sordid reptiles ! for some paltry laro-ess 
And passing revelry, they would right glad , 

ly 

See peace and order and domestic bliss 
'I'o misery and wild confusion changed. 
Hateful suggestions ! base and vague conjec- 
tures 
Which vulgar minds on slight foundation rear ! 

All false ! 

And yet they are upon my lieart 
Like the compress ure of a coiled boa. 
Loathly but irresistible. 

A bride ! 
It cannot be ! — Tho' her unveiled face 
Was of surprising beauty — O how lovely ! 
Yet he bestowed on her but frigid praise 
And still continued to repress my ardour, 
Whene'er I spoke of the fair mountain maid. 
With silent stern reserve. — Is this like love.^ 
It is not natural. 

Ah ! but it is ; 
It is too natural, — deep subtle nature. 
How was my ideot soul so far beguiled 
That I ne'er thought of this.' 

Yes, yes, he loves her ! 
Loves her whom I so well — so dearly love. 
That every female image but her own 
Is from my heart effaced, like curling mists 
That, rising from the vale, cling for a while 
To the tall clilTs brown breast, till tlie warm 

sun 
Dissolves them utterly. — 'Tis so ; even she 
Whom I have thought of, dreamt of, ta'ked 

of,— ay. 
And talked to, though in absence, as a thing 
Present and conscious of my words, and 

living, 
Ijike tlie pure air around me, every where. 

(after a pause.) 
And he must have this creature of perfection '. 
It shall not bo, whatever else may be ! 
As there is blood and manhood in this body. 
It shall not be ! 

And thou, my gentle sister, 



Must thy long course of wedded love and hon- 
our 
Come to such end ! — Thy noble heart will 

break. 
When love and friendly confidence are fled, 
Thou art not form'd to sit within thy bovver 
Like a drcss'd idol in its carv'd alcove, 
A thing of silk and gems and cold repose : 

Thy keen but generous nature Shall it 

he? 
I'll sooner to the trampling elephant 
Lay down this mortal frame, than see thee 
wrong'd. (after a considerable pause.) 
Nay, nay I I am a madman in my rage. 
The words of that base varlet may be false. 
Good Montebesa shall resolve my doubts. 
Her son confides to her his secret thoughts : 
To her I'll go and be relieved from torment. 
Or know the worst at once. [Exit. 

Scene IL — the apartment op mon- 
tebesa. 

Sabawatte is discovered at work and singing. 
SONG. 

The gliding fish that takes his play 
In shady nook of .streamlet cool, 

Thinks not how waters pass away, 
And summer dries the pool. 

The bird beneath his leafy dome 
Who trills his carol, loud and clear, 

Thinks not how soon his verdant home 
The lightning's breath may sear. 

Shall I within my bridegroom's bower 
With braids of budding roses twin'd. 

Look forward to a coming hour 
When he may. prove unkind ? 

The bee reigns in his waxen cell. 
The chieftain in his stately hold, 

To-morrow's earthquake, — who can tell ? 
May botii in ruin fold. 

Enter Moktebksa as the song is concluded. 

Man. Did I not hear thee singing, as 1 
came. 
The song my dear Artina loves to hear .■" 
Sab. Even so, good lady; many a time I 
sang it 
When first I was attendant in her boVi/er ; 
Ere, at your own desire, and for my honour, 
She did resign me to your higher service. 
Mon. Sing it no more : alas ! she thought 
not then 
Of its contain'd allusions to a fate 
Which now abides herself. 

Sab. No, not her fate; you surely mean 
not so : 
She is a happy wife, the only wife 
Of brave Rasinga, honour'd and beloved. 
Mo7i. She was and is as yet his only wife. 
Sab. Jls yet his only wife ! and think you 
then 
She will not so continue t 
Mon. Sabawatte, 



THE BRIDE 



423 



li. grieves me much to tell thee what perforce 
Must soon be known to all ; my son Rasinga 
Hath set his heart upon a younger bride, 
Perhaps a fairer too. 

Sab. (eagerly.) No : not a fairer. 

I'd peril life and limb upon the bet, 
She is not half so fair, nor half so good. 
Afon. Be not so hasty. — Why dost thou re- 
gard it 
As such a grievous thing .■' She has already 
Enjoyed his undivided love much longer 
Than other dames have done with other lords, 
And reason teaches she should now give place. 

Sub. Reason and cruelty sort ill together; 
A loorie haunting with a spotted pard. 
Ah ! wo the day ! Why have you told me 
this ? 
Mon. Because I would upon your sadden'd 
brow 
Print traces which may lead our poor Artina 
To question thee ; and thou who art her friend 
Canst by degrees, with gentle wise precau- 
tion, 
Reveal to her what she must needs be told. 

Sab. I cannot : put not such a task on me, 
I do implore your goodness ! — No, I cannot. 
Mon. Hush, hush ! 1 hear the footsteps of 
a man, 
But not Rasinga. — It is Samarkoon ; 
I know his rapid tread. — Be wise ; be silent ; 
For he a while must live in ignorance. 

Enter Samakkoon, and Saba watte retires 
to some distance. 

A happy morning to j'ou, my youthful kins- 
man I 
Sam. As it may prove, good lady: happy 

morning 
Oft leads to woeful eve ; ay, woeful noon. 
Mon. These are strange sombre words; 

what is the matter .■' 
Why dost thou look both sorrowful and stern .-" 
Sam. I have good cause, if that which I have 

heard 
Be aught but a malignant, hateful tale. 
On mere conjecture founded. Answer me 
If thou know'st nothing of a num'rous train 
In preparation, by Rasinga's orders. 
To fetch home to his house a fair^oung bride .'' 
There's no such thing. — Speak — speak 1 I 

will believe thee ; 
For if to thee unknown, there's no such 

thing. — 
(.i pause, he looking inquisitively i?! her face. 
Thou dost not speak ; thou dost not answer 

me ; 
There's trouble in thine eye. — A with'ring 

curse 
Light on his heartless heart, if this be true ! 
Mon. Brave Samarkoon ! thou art not wise 

so fiercely 
To question me of that which well may be 
Without my knowledge ; — that which, if it 

be. 
Nor thou nor I have any power to alter. 
Sa-m. VVhicii if it be '. that if betrays an 

answer ; 



A shameful answer, shunning open words. 
Dear, dear Artina 1 thou hast climbed alrea- 

dy 
The sunny side of Doombra's mountain ridge, 
And now with one short step must pass the 

bounds 
Dividing ardent heat from chilling clouds 
With drenching mist surcharged. 

So suddenly 
To bring this change upon her ! Cruel craft ! 
He knows that it will break her tender heart. 
And serve his fatal purpose. 

Mon. Frantic man I 

Thou art unjust, ungenerous, unwise ; 
For should Rasinga — no uncommon act, 
Take to his princely bower a second bride, 
Would not Artina still be held in honour. 
Her children cherished and their rank secur- 
ed.? 
Sam. Such honour as unfeeling worldlings 
give 
To fall'n deserted merit, she will have ; 
And such security as should-be heirs. 
Who stand i' th' way of younger, petted mm- 

ions, 
Find in the house of an estranged sire, 
Her children will receive. — Alas, alas ! 
Tlie very bonds of soul-devoted love 
That did so long entwine a husband's heart. 
For her own life the cord of execution 
Will surely prove. — Detested cruelty ! 
But is it so ? My head is all confusion, 
My heart all fire ; — I know not what thou 
said'st. 
Mon. Indeed, young kinsman, thou art now 
unfit 
To hold discourse on such a wayward subject. 
She whom thou lov'st so dearly as a brother, 
1 as a mother do most truly love. 
Let this suffice thee, and retire a while, 
For I expect Artina, and 'tis meet 
She be not now overvvhelm'd with thy dis- 
tress. 
Ha ! she is here already ; tripping lightly 
With sparkling eyes, like any happy child. 
Who bears away the new-robb'd rock-bird's 
spoil. 

Enter Artina, gayly, with an embroidered scar! 
of many colours in her hand, and running up 

to MONTEEESA. 

.^rt. Dear mother, look at this ! such tints, 

such flowers ? 
The spirits of the Peak have done this work ; 
Not hands of flesh and blood. — Nay, look 

more closely. 
And thou too, Samarkoon. How cam'st thou 

here .' 
I pray you both admire the beauteous gift — 
Rasinga's gift — which I have just received. 
Sam. (eagerly.) Received from his own 

hand, so lately too .'' 
^rt. Ev'n now. But did I say from his own 

hand .' , 

He sent it to me, the capricious man ! 
Ay, and another present, some days since, 
Was also sent. — Ay so it was indeed. 



424 



THE BRIDE. 



Sa7n. Was he not wont to bring such gifts 

liiinself? 
,^rt. With what a face of gravity thou 
asii'st 
This most important question ! — Never mind : 
I can devise a means to be revenged, 
For all this seeming lack of courtesy. 
Mon. Devise a means to be revenged ! and 

how ? 
Jlrt. I'll dress old nurse, as my ambassa- 
dress, 
With robe and veil and pall majestical, 
And she shall thank him in a tiresome speech, 
(He hates her formal prosing) — that I trow. 
Will cure him of such princely modes of 

sending 
His gifts to me. — But ye are wond'rous grave. 
What ails thee, brother .'' Speak, good Mon- 

tebesa ; 
I fear he is not well. 

Mon. Ho is not very well. 
Jirt. {taking his hand uffectionatehj.) 
Indeed he is not. 

Savi. {turjiiniT away his face.) 
A passing fit of fever has disturbed me. 
But mind it not, Artina. 
j]rt. Nay, nay, but I iciU mind it, gentle 
brother. 
And I have learnt this morning cheering 

news, — 
Good news for thee and all sick folks be- 
side. 
Mon. We want good news ; what is it thou 

hast heard .-■ 
Art. De Creda, who, by physic magical, 
Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady, 
When at the point of death, is just arrived. 
Where he hath been these two long years and 

more 
There's not a creature knows. Perhaps i' 

the moon. 
If magic knows the way to climb so high. 
Man. Perhaps in his own land. 
Jilt. Ay, certes, Europe is a wond'rous 
kingdom. 
And well worth visiting, which sends forth 

men 
So gifted and so good. 

Sam. I pray thee say not men, but only 
man. 
Hath it e'er sent another like to him ? 
Yet wherefore came he to these happier re- 
gions 
With such a wicked crew ? 

Jirt. Nay, blame him not : 
His fate hath been disasterous and sad. 
As I have heard him say ; and woe is me ! 
r.Iisfortunc is not dainty in associates. 

Sam. Associates ! Solitude in trackless de- 
serts. 
Where locusts, ants, and lizards poorly 

til rive, — 
On the bare summit of a rugged peak. 
Where birds of prey in dusky circles wing 
The troubled air with loud andclam'rous din. 
Were to an honest heart endurable, 
Rather than such as.sociates. 



Jlrt. Ha ! does this rouse thee so .' Yety 
ne'ertheless, 
I'll send for him, and he will make thee well. 
Sa7n. I'm well if thou art so, my gentle sis- 
ter. 
Art. And I am so ; how canst thou doubt 
it, brother. 
Being so loving and so well beloved. 

Sam. Oyes ! thou art indeed beloved most 
dearly. 
Both thee and thine, and so shall ever be 
Whilst life gives motion to thy brother's heart. 
Art. A brother's heart! — How so.'' there is 
a meaning, — 
A meaning and a mystery in this. 
Tears too are on my hand, dropt from thine 
eyes ;— 

speak and tell the worst ! 

Sam. I may not now! 

1 pray thee let me go ; I cannot speak. 
(Breaks from her and exit. Then Sabawatte 

comes forward and takes liold of her robe 
2cith an action of soothing tenderness. 
Art. {to Snl/nwatte.) Dost thou look on me 
with pity ? — Speak, 
I charge thee speak, and tell the fearful cause. 
Since no one else will do it. 
Mon. My dear Artina, thou shalt know the 
truth, 
Which can no longer be conceal'd ; but listen, 
Listen with patience to the previous story, 
And thou wilt see how fated, strange events, 
Have caused within Rasinga's noble heart, 
Ev'n he who has so long and dearly loved 

thee, 
A growing possibility of change. 
Art. If he is changed, why should I know 
the rest ? 
All is comprised in this. {With actions of 
despair.) 
Mon. Nay, do not wring thy hands, but 
listen to me. 
Sit on this seat, and call up strength to hear me. 
Thou giv'st no heed to me ; thou dost not 
hear. 
(Art. in a loio voice after a pause.) 
I'm faint and very cold ; mine ears ring 

strangely ; 
But I will try to do whate'er thou wilt. 
{after another paiise.) 
There is a story then : I'll hear it now. 
Mon. Rasinga, as thou know'st, did, short 
while since, 
A mountain chief and his fair daughter res- 
cue 
From rufHan robbers. In its youthful charms 
He saw the virgin's unveil'd face. Alas ! 
A sight so rare he could not see unmoved. 
Restless and troubled, like a strickened 

wretch 
Whom sorcery possesses, for a while 
He strove against his passion, but at length 
Nature gave way ; and thou inay'st guess 
what follows. 
Art. What follows !— What has followed? 
Mon. Our gates must soon receive this 
youthful bride ; 



THE BRIDE. 



425 



And thou, dear daughter, must prepare thy- 
self 

To bear some natural change. 

{Artina faints away in the arms of Sabawatte.) 
Sal). I knew it would be so ! Oh, my dear 
mistress ! 

These cruel words have dealt the fatal blow 
Mon. Be not afraid of this infirmity , 

Which, though it seems appalling, brings re- 
lief, 

Ev'n like Niwane, when the virtuous soul 

Hath run, through many a change, its trou- 
bled course. 

Let us remove her gently to my couch. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — the apartments of ka- 

SINGA. 

He enters, followed by Ehleypoolie and MiH- 
DOONY, and is speaking as he enters. 

Ras. {to Ehleypoolie.) Thou hast done 

well. 
Ehl. I am not given to boasting. 
Yet I must say all things are so arranged. 
That never bride's array, on such short no- 
tice. 
Was better order'd, or for gallant show. 
Or for security. 

Ras. Tis rich and splendid ? 
Ehl. Our palanquin, with all its colour'd 
streamers. 
Will shine above the guard's encircling 

heads. 
Like any crested mancka, proudly perch'd 
Upon the summit of her bushy knoll. 

Ras. And have ye pioneers to clear its way ? 
Ehl. Ay, pioneers, who through a tangled 
thicket 
Make room as quickly as the supple trunk 
Of a wild elephant ; whilst forest birds 
From their rent haunts dislodged, fly up and 

wheel 
In mazy circles, raising clam'rous cries, 
And casting noon-day shadows, like a cloud, 
On the green woods beneath. 
JIM. In truth, my Lord, he makes it well 
appear 
He is not given to boasting. 

Ras. {smiling.)Not a whit ! As meek and 
modest as a Padur's child. 
And having done so much for show and 

speed, 
Good Ehleypoolie, I will take for granted 
The chiefest point of edl, security, 
Has not been overlook'd ; for mountain rob- 
bers 
May yet be lurking near some narrow pass. 
Ehl. Well, let them lurk and burst upon us 
too ; 
'Twill be as though a troop of mowing mon- 
keys. 
With antic mimic motions of defiance. 
Should front the brinded ticrpr and his brood ; 
Full soon, I trow, their hinder parts are seen 
Lank and unseemly, to the en'my turn'd, 
63 



In scamp'ring haste, to gain the nearest shel- 
ter. 

It were good sport if they should dare to face 
us. 
Mih. You see, my Lord, he is in all things 

perfect. 
Ras. I see it plainly. Thanks for all thy 
pains. 

Brave Ehleypoolie. 

Ehl. Shall we take with us 

The pipes and doulas which have hung so 
long 

In the recess of Dame Artina's garden ? 

Of all your instruments there are not any 

That sound so loud and clear. 

Ras. (sternly.) No, no ! I charge thee, 

Let nothing there be changed. Thy witless 
words 

Have struck upon my heart a dismal note, 

Depressing all its life and buoyancy. 

Alas ! my joy is like the shimm'ring bright- 
ness 

Of moving waves, touch'd by the half-risen 
moon, 

Tracing her narrow pathway on the deep : 

Between each brighten'd ridge black dark- 
ness lies. 

Whilst far on either side, the wat'ry waste 

Spreads dim, and vague, and cheerless. 
Mih. If such thy thoughts, dost thou re- 
pent thy purpose ? 
Ras. Not so; there's extacy in those bright 
gleams ; 

Ay, and though cross'd with darkness black 
as midnight, 

I will enjoy this momentary radiance. 

Enter a Slave in haste. 
What brings thee here with such a staring 
face ? 
Slave. The Lady's coming ; she is close at 

hand. 
Ras. Ha ! from her father's house, unsent 

for, come ? 
Slave. No, not that Lady, sir, it is Artina. 
Ras. (much disturbed.) I thought my mo- 
ther would have spared me this. 
Is Montebesa with her ? 

Slave, No, my Lord. 

She has her children with her. 

Ras. Wretched moment ! 

The sight of them will change my strength 

to cowardice : 
What shall I do .' 

Ehl. I'll quickly run and say that you are 
busy, 
And cannot see her. 

Ras. (pulling Ehleypoolie hack as he is about 

to go out.) 

Restrain thy heartless zeal; it is most odious. 

Shall she be so debarr'd from entrance here, 

Whose presence was a blessing and a grace ! 

Enter Artina, leading her youngest Child, and 
followed by Samar, leading his little Sister. 
Rasinga hastens to meet her, and leads her 
in silence to the principal seat, at the same 
time motioning to Ehleypoolie and Mih- 



426 



THE BRIDE. 



DooNV to withdraw, who immediately leave 
the apartment. 

Here take this seat, Artina. 

Art. No, my Lord ; 

I come not here to sit; I come to kneel, 
As now beseems a scoin'd forsaken wife, 
Who pleads with strong affection for her chil- 
dren ; 
Who pleads in painful memory of love 
Which thou for many years hast lavished on 

her, 
Till, in the gladness of a foolish heart, 
She did believe that she was worthy of it. 
Ras. Yes, dear Artina, thou wert worthy 

of it ; 
Thou wert and art, and slialt be loved and 

honour'd 
While there is life within Rasinga's bosom. 
Why didst thou think it could be otherwise, 
Although another mate within my house 
May take her place to be with thee associated, 
As younger sister with an elder-born .'' 
Such union is in many houses found. 

Art. I have no skill in words, no power to 

reason : 
How others live I little care to know : 
But this I feel, there is no life for me, 
No love, no honour, if thy alter'd heart 
Hath put me from it for another mate. 
Oh woe is me ! these children on thy knees 
That were so oftcaress'd, so dearly cherish'd. 
Must then divide thy love with younger fav'- 

rites. 
Of j^ounger mother born .'' Alas ! alas ! 
Small will the portion be that falls to them. 
Ras. Nay, say not so, Artina; say not so. 
Art. I know it well. Thou thinkest now, 

belike. 
That thou wilt love them still ; but ah ! too 

soon 
They'll be as things who do but haunt thy 

house. 
Lacking another home, uncheer'd, uncared 

for. 
And who will heed their wants, will soothe 

their sorrow. 
When their poor mother moulders in the grave, 
And her vex'd spirit, in some other form, 
Is on its way to gain the dreamless sleep. 
Kneel, Samar, kneel ! thy father lov'd the 

first, 
In our first happy days. — Wilt thou not, boy ? 
Why dost thou stand so sullen and so still .' 
Samar. He loves us not. 
Art. Nay, nay, but he will love us. 
Down on thy knees ! up with thy clasped 

hands ! 
Rasinga, O Rasinga ! did I think 
So to implore thy pity — nie and mine 
So to implore thy pity, and in vain ! 
(^Slnlison the ff round exhausted with agitation.) 
Ras. {raising her gently in his arms.) Dear- 
est Artina ! still most dear to me ; 
Thy passionate affections waste thy strength ; 
Let me support thee to another chamber, 
More fitting for retirement and for rest. 



Come also, children. — Come, my little play- 
mates ! 
Samar. We're not thy playmates now. 
Ras. What dost thou say .' 

Samar. Thou dost not speak and smile and 
sport with us 
As thou wert wont : we're not thy playmates 
now. 
Ras. Thou art a fearless knave to tell me so. 
[Exeunt Artina /cawiwo- on her husband and 
the children following. 

Scene IV. — a retired grove near the 

CASTLE OF RASINGA. 

Enter Samarkoon and a Forest Freebooter. 
Sam. Now stop we here ; in this sequester- 
ed spot, 
We may with freedom commune on the pur- 
pose 
For which I would engage thy speedy aid. 
Thou knowest who I am : and dost remember 
Where, how, and when I last encounter'd 
thee i" 
Freeh. I do, my Lord ; but though thou 
find'st ine thus, 
Alone and slightly arm'd, be well assured 
I will defend my life and liberty. 
Against ihyseh' {looking suspirinusly round) or 

any ambush'd band 
To the last bloody push of desperation. 

Sarti. I know thou wilt ; it is thy desp'rate 
prowess 
Which makes me now, all robber as thou art, 
And lurking here disguised, as well I guess. 
For no good end, — to seek thy amity. 

Freeh. My amity ! the noble Samarkoon — 
A chief of rank, and brother of Rasinga ! 
Sam. Strong passion by strong provocation 
roused 
Is not a scrup'lous chooser of its means. 
How many of these armed desperadoes, 
From whose fell hands we did so lately rescue 
That petty chieftain and his child, could'st 

thou 
Within short time assemble .' 

Freeh. Few remain 

Of those who once, at call of my shrill horn. 
With spear and bow in hand, and quiver'd 

back 
The deadly arrows bearing, issued forth 
From cave or woodyjungle, fierce butstealthy, 
Like glaring, tawny pards, — few, few remain. 
Sam,. But some remain ? 
Freeh. Ay, some. 

Sam. And they are brave .-" 

Freeh. No braver bandits e'er in deadly 
strife 
With man or tiger grappled. 

Sam. Enough, hie quickly to thy forest 
haunts, 
And near the narrow pass where ye sustain'd 
The onset of Rasinga, wait my coming 
With all the armed mates thou canst assemble, 
And there I'll join thee with a trusty band. 
Do this, and tiiou slialt be rewarded richly. 



THE BRIDE. 



427 



Freeh. I will ; nor do I doubt the recom- 
pense 
From such a noble chief will be most bounti- 
ful. 
Sam. Tis well ; be speedy, secret, faithful, 
— brave 
I need not say. So let us separate, 
Nor stay for further parley ; time is precious. 

Freeh- I will but go to leave an offering 
At the Wiliare yonder, then with speed 
Wend to our woods. — But wherefore smilest 
thou ? 
Sam. Dost thou regard such duties .'' 
Freeh. Ay, good sooth ! 
Who has more need of favour from the gods 
Than he who leads a life of lawless peril .' 

[Exit. 
Sam. (exuUingly.) Ay, now, Rasinga, set 
thy costly chamber, 
While poor Artina sighs and weeps unheeded, 
In gallant order for thy fair new bride ! 
Another bridegroom and another chamber 
Abide her which thou little thinkest of 

[Exit. 



ACT 11. 
Scene I. — the castle of samarkoon. 

LOCD SHOOTING HEARD WITHOUT. 

Enter several Domestics in confusion. 

First Dom. What shouts are those? do 
enemies approach .'' 
What can we do in our brave master's ab- 
sence ? 
Second Dom. Ha ! hear it now I it is no 
enemy ; 
It is our Lord himself; I know the sound. 
And lo! his messenger arrived with tidings. 

Enter a Messenger. 

What are thy news .'' 

Mcs. Right joyful news, I warrant. 

Our master brings a bride, by conquest won. 
To be the bhss and sunshine of his house ; 
A bride fair as the goddess, bright Patine. 
First Dom. Most unexpected tidings ! Won 

by conquest .-' 
Second Dom. With whom has he been fight- 
ing for such prize ? 
Mes. Fy, fy ! despatch and make such pre- 
paration 
As may be fitting for a bride's reception : 
There is no time for telling stories now. 
Despatch, I say ; do ye not hear them nearer ? 
They are not many furlongs from the gate. 
[Exeunt in haste different ways. 

Scene II. — the hall or principal 

ROOM OF THE CASTLE. 

Enter Samarkook leading ia a Lady covered 
with a veil, and followed by two Female At- 
tendants ; then a band of Musicians and a 



train of armed Men with Ehleypoolie and 
several of his Soldiers as prisoners. ANup- 
tial Chaunt or Song is struck up. 

SONG. 

Open wide the frontal gate, 
The Lady comes in bridal state ; 
Than wafted spices sweeter far. 
Brighter than the morning star ; 
Modest as the lily wild, 
Gentle as a nurse's child. 
A lovelier prize of prouder boast, 
Never chieftain's threshold crost. 

Like the beams of early day, 

Her eyes' quick flashes brightly play j 

Brightly play and gladden all 

On whoni their kindly glances fall. 

Her lips in smiling weave a charm 

To keep the peopled house from harm. 

In happy moment is she come 

To bless a noble chieftain's home. 

Happy be her dwelling here, 
Many a day and month and year ! 
Happy as the nested dove 
In her fruitful ark of love ! 
Happy in her tented screen ! 
Happy in her garden green ! 
Thus we welcome, one and all, 
Our lady to her chieftain's hall. 

Sam. I give ye all large thanks, my valiant 

warriors. 
For the good service ye have done to me 
Upon this day of happy fate. Ere long. 
This gentle lady too, I trust, will thank you, 
Albeit her present tears and alter'd state 
Have made her shrink and droop in cheerless 

silence. 
An ample recompense ye well have won, 
Which shall not with a sparuig hand be dealt. 
Meantime, partake our cheer and revelry ; 
And let the wounded have attendance due ; 
Let sorcery and med'cine do their best 
To mitigate their pain. 

( Turning to the Prisoners.) 
Nay, Ehleypoolie, 
Why from beneath those low 'ring brows dost 

thou 
Cast on the ground such wan and wither'd 

looks ? 
Thy martial enterprise fell somewhat short 
Of thy predictions and thy master's pleasure ; 
But thou and all thy band have bravely fought, 
And no disgrace is coupled with your failure. 
Ehl. Had not my amulets from this right 

arm 
Been at the onset torn, ev'n ambush'd foes 
Had not so master'd us. 

Sam. Well, be it so ; good amulets here- 
after 
Thou may'st secure, and fight with better 

luck. 
Ehl. Ay, luck was on your side, good sooth ! 

such luck 

As fiends and magic give. Another time 

5am. What thou wilt do another time, at 

present 



428 



THE BRIDE. 



We have no time to learn, {to his followers 

generally.) 
Go where cool sparkling cups and sav'ry 

viands 
Will wasted strength recruit, and cheer your 

hearts. 
Ere long I'll join you at the board, and fill 
A hearty cup of health and thanks to all. 
[Exeunt all but Samarkoon, the Bride, and her 

Female Jittcndajits. 
And now, dear maid, thou pearl and gem of 

beauty. 
The prize for which this bloody fray was 

fought, 
Wilt thou forgive a youthful lover's boldness, 
And the rude outrage by his love committed .'' 
Wilt thou not speak to me .'' 

Bride. What can I say .' 

I was the destined bride of great Rasinga; 
My father told me so. 

Sam- But did thy heart — 

Did thine own heart, sweet maid, repeat the 

tale .? 
And did it say to thee, " the elder chieflain 
Is he whom 1 approve ; his younger rival 
Unworthy of my choice ? " 

Bride. My choice ! a modest virgin hath 
no choice. 
That I have seen you both ; that both have 

seen 
My unveil'd face, alas ! is my dishonour, 
Albeit most innocent of such exposure. 
Sam. Say not dishonour; innocence is hon- 
our, 
And thou art innocent and therefore honour- 
able, 
Though every slave and spearman of our train 
Had gaz'd upon thy face. The morning star 
Receives no taint for that a thousand eyes, 
All heaven-ward turn'd, admire its lovely 

brightness. 
Let me again look in thy dark soft eyes, 
And read my pardon in one beamy smile. 
{J}ttem'pting to draw aside her veil while she 
gathers it the closer.) 
Bride. Forbear, forbear I this is indignity. 
Sam. And this, dear maid, is childish bash- 
fulness. 
{The upper fastening of the veil gives way and 

falls over her hand.) 
And look, the silly fence drops of itself; 
An omen of good fortune to my love. 
Oh ! while those eyes are fixed upon the 

ground. 
Defended from too ardent admiration. 
With patience hear my suit. — Two rival chiefs 
Have look'd upon thy face, and thou per 

force 
Must choose or one or other for thy husband. 
Rasinga in his rich and noble mansion, 
Hath years already pass'd in wedded love ; 
And is the husband of a virtuous dame, 
Whose faithful heart, in giving place to thee, 
Will be asunder torn. My house is humble; 
No gay and costly treasures deck its walls ; 
But I am young, unmarried, and my heart 



Shall be thine own, whilst thou reign'st mis- 
tress here. 

As shares the lion's mate his forest cave. 

In proud equality. — Thou smilest at this; 

And it doth please thy fancy ; — yea, a tear 

Falls on that smiling cheek ; yes, thou art 
mine. 
Bride. Too quickly dost thou scan a passing 

thought. 
Sam. Tlianks, thanks ! O take my thanks 
for such dear words ! 

And speak them yet again with that sweet 
voice 

Which makes my heart dance in its glowing 
cell. 
First Jit. {advancing to Samarkoon.) My 
Lady is far spent with all this coil ; 

She has much need of quiet repose. I pray, 

On her behalf, let this be granted to her. 
Bride, {to First At. ) I thank thee nurse ! 
{to Samarkoon.) My Lord, I would 
retire. 
Sam. I will retire, or do whate'er thou wilt. 

Thy word or wish commands myself and mine. 

[Exit. 
First M. Thyself and thine ! a mighty rich 
dominion ! 

Alack, alackaday, the woeful change ! 

This rude unfurnish'd tower for the fair man- 
sion 

Of great Rasinga ! Evil was the hour 

When those fell demons stopped us on our 
way. 
Bride. O say not so! in great Rasinga's 
house 

A noble wife already holds her state, 

And here 1 shall have no divided pleasure. 
First M. Divided! Doth an elder faded 
wife 

In love, in honour, or in riches share 

Like portion with a youthful beauty .' No ! 

She doth herself become the flatt'ring subject 

Of her through whom the husband's favours 
flow ; 

And thereby doth increase her rival's power, 

Her state and dignity. 

Thou art a simple child, and hast no sense 

Of happiness or honour. Woe the day 

When those fell demons stopp'd our high ca- 
reer ! 
Bride. But for my father's anger, and the 
blood 

Which has been shed in this untoward fray, 

The day were one of joy and not of woe, 

In my poor estimation. 
First At. Poor, indeed ! 
Second Jit. {advancing.) Fy, nurse ! how 
canst thou so forget tliyself .' 

Thy words are rude ; my lady is offended. 
I<irst Jit. Who would not, so provok'd, for- 
get herself.' 

Ah ! the rich treasures of Rasinga's palace ! 

His gaudy slaves, his splendid palanquins ! 

They have pass'd from us like a mummer's 
sliow. 

Seen for an hour and gone. 



THE BRIDE. 



429 



Enter a Female Domestic. 
Dom. My master bids me say, the lady's 



chamber 
Is now in readiness. 



[Exeunt. 



-THE COURT OF THE CAS- 



SCENE III. 
TLE. 

Enter Two Domestics, meeting. 
First Dom. The merry revelry continues 
still 
As if but just begun, though Samarkoon 
Reminds them anxiously, that preparation 
For the defence of this neglected hold, 
Is pressing matter of necessity. 

Second Dom. Those glutton bandits will 
not leave a board, 
On which good viands smoke or wine cups 

sparkle, 
For all the words of threat'ning or entreaty, 
That mortal tongue can utter. 
Enter a Third Domestic, in great alarm. 
Third Dom. Where is our master.' 
First Dom. What alarms thee so ? 
Third Dom. There is a power of armed 
men advancing. 
I saw their dark heads winding through the 

pass, 
Above the bushes shown ; a lengthen'd hne. 
Two hundred strong, I guess. 
First Dom. It is Rasinga. 
Second Dom. Ring the larum bell. 
And rouse those drunken thieves from their 
debauch. 
Third Dom. But I must find our master ; 

where is he .' 
First Dom. He was i' th' inner court some 
minutes since. 
{The larum bell is rung, and many people in 
confvsion cross the stage as the scene closes.) 

Scene IV. — an open space before 

THE GATE OF THE CASTLE; ARMED 
MEN ARE DISCOVERED ON THE WALLS. 

Enter Rasinga and his Force. 
Ras. {to those on the icalls.) Where is that 
villain whom ye call your Lord ? 
Let him appear, and say, why hke a robber, — 
A reckless, lawless traitor, he hath dared 
My servants to attack, my bride to capture, 
And do most foul dishonour to my state. 
Am I a driv'ling fool, — a nerveless stripling, — 
A widow'd ranny, propping infant's rights. 
That thus he reckons with impunity 
To pour on me such outrage ? 

Enter Samarkoon above, and stands on the 
wall over the gate. 
Sara. Rasinga, thou art robb'd and thou art 
wrong'd. 
And hast good cause to utter stormy words. 
Ras. Ay, and good cause to back those 
stormy words 
With stormy blows which soon shall force 
that gate, 



Make desp'rate entrance through the rifled 

walls. 
And leave within your paltry tower of all 
Who dare oppose my arms, no living thing. 
Unless thou do restore the mountain beauty, 
And all the spoil thou hast so basely won. 
Sam. Though I have dared to wrong thee, 
brave Rasinga, 
I've done it in the heat and agony 
Of passions tliat within a generous breast 
Are irresistible, and, be assured. 
With no weak calculations cf impunity. 
The living treasure I have robb'd thee of, 
I will defend to the extremity 
Of desp'rate effort, ev'n in this poor hold, 
Mann'd as it is. — I well might speak to thee 
Of equal claims to that fair beauty's favour; 
Of secret love ; of strong fraternal sympathy 
With her whose honour'd name I will not 

utter. 
But tliat were vain. 

Ras. Vain as a sea-bird's screams. 
To check the wind-scourged ocean's rising 

billows : 
So far thou speakest wisely. — Stern defiance 
I cast to thee ; receive it as thou inay'st. 
Audacious traitor ! 

Sam. And I to thee do cast it back again 
With words and heart as dauntless as thine 
own. 
Ras. {to his foUmccrs.) Here ends our 
waste of breath and waste of tinu-. 
On, pioneers, and let your pond'rous mallets 
Break down the gate. To it, my valiant bow- 
men ! 
Discharo-e a shower of arrows on that wall. 
And clear it of yon load of miscreant life. 
(Rasinga's followers raise a shout, ichich is 
answered by one equally loud from the ad-^ 
rerse -party, and the attach covuncnce.'i. 
Jiftcr great efforts of attack and defence, the 
gate is at last forced, and Rasinga with his 
force enters the Castle. The Scene then clo- 
ses.) 

Scene V. — a wild mountain pass, 

WITH A BRIDGE SWUNG FROM ONE 
HIGH PERPENDICULAR ROCK TO 
ANOTHER. THE COURSE OF A SMALL 
STREAM, WITH ITS HERBY MARGIN, 
SEEN BENEATH. 

Martial music is heard, and a military procession 
seen at some distance, winding among the 
rocks and at length crossing the bridge. Then 
come the followers of K.^singa in triumph, 
leading Samarkoon in chains, followed by 
men bearing a palanquin, and in the rear Ra- 
singa himself, with his principal officers. As 
he is on the middle of the bridge, Juan De 
Creda enters below, and calls to him with a 
loud voice. 

Juan. Rasinga, ho I thou noble chief, Ras- 
inga ! 
Ras. {ahove.) Who calls on me .' 
Juan. Dost thou not know my voice.' 



430 



THE BRIDE. 



Ras. Juan de Creda, is it thou indeed? 
Why do I find thee here ? 
Juan. Because the power that rules o'er 
heaven and earth 
Hath laid its high commission on my soul, 
Here to arrest tiiee on thy fatal way. 
Ras. What mean such solemn words ? 
Juan. Descend to me and thou shalt know 
their meaning. 
(Rasinga crosses the bridge and re-appears he- 
low.) 

Ras. I have obeyed thee, and do bid thee 
welcome 
To this fair land again. — But thou shrink'st 

back, 
Casting on me looks of upbraiding sorrow : 
With thee I may not lordly rights assert ; 
What is thy pleasure .^ 
Juan. Is he, the prisoner now led before 
thee. 
Loaded with chains, like a vile criminal, 
Is he the noble Samarkoon, thy brother.'' 
Ras. Miscall not by such names that fet- 
ter'd villain : 
He, who once wore them with fair specious 

seeming. 
Is now extinct to honour, base, and treacher- 
ous. 
The vilest carcase, trampled under foot 
Of pond'rous elephant, for lawless deeds, 
Was ne'er inhabited by soul more worthless. 
Juan. Thy bitter wrath ascribes to his of- 
fence 
A ten-fold turpitude. Suspect thy judgment. 
When two days thought lias commun'd with 

thy conscience, 
Of all the strong temptations which beset 
Unwary youth by potent passions urged, 
Thou wilt not pass on him so harsh a censure. 
Ras. When two days thought I If that he 
be alive, 
And wear a human semblance two days hence, 
In the fell serpent's folds, the tiger's paws, 
Or earthquake's pitchy crevice, with like 

speed. 
Be my abhorred end. 

Juan. Hold, hold, Rasinga! 

The God, in whose high keeping is the fate 
Of every mortal man, or prince or slave, 
Hath this behest declared, that sinful man 
Should pardon grant to a repentant brother; 
Yea, more than this, — to his repentant ene- 
mies. 
So God commands ; and wilt thou prove re- 
bellious .' 
Ras. Ha ! hast thou been in heaven since 
last we met. 
To bring from hence this precious message .' 

Truly 
Thou speak'st as if thou had'st. 

Jaan. No, I have found it in my native 
land, 
Within the pages of a sacred book 
Which I and my compatriots do believe 
Contains the high revealed will of God. 
Ras. Ha! then those Europeans, whom the 
sea 



Hath cast like fiends upon our eastern shores, 
To wrong and spoil and steep the soil with 

blood. 
Are not compatriots of thy book-taught land. 
What ! dost thou cast thine eyes upon the 

ground ^ 
The stain of rushing blood is on thy clieek. 
If they be so, methinks they have obeyed 
That heavenly message sparingly. — Go to ! 
Tell me no more of this fantastic virtue, — 
This mercy and forgiveness. Even a woman, 
A child, a simpleton, would laugh to scorn 
Such strange unnatural duty. 
Juan. Call it not so, till I have told thee 

further {taking his hand.) 

Ras. Detain me not. But that to thee I 
owe 
My life from fatal sickness rescued, — dearly, 
Full dearly should'st thou pay for such pre- 
sumption. 
Let go thy hold. 

Jtian. 1 will not till thou promise. 

Before thy vengeful purpose is efiected, 
To see me once again. 

Ras. I promise then, thou proud and daunt- 
less stranger ; 
For benefits are traced in ray remembrance 
With lines as ineffaceable as wrongs. 

[E.'SECNT. 

Scene VI. — the house of montebesa. 

MoNTEBESA enters, meeting a Servant, from 
the opposite side. 

Mon. What com'st thou to impart ? thy busy 

face 
Is full of mingled meaning, grief and gladness. 
Serv. My Lord Rasinga, madam, is return- 
ed, — 
Return'd victorious ; and the fair young bride 
Again is rescued by his matchless valour. 
Mon. All this is good ; hast thou no more 

to tell ? 
Serv. Alas ! I have ; for by his spearmen 

guarded. 
Loaded with chains, most rueful to behold, 
Comes Samarkoon. For now it doth appear, 
That he, enleagued with robbers, was the 

spoiler. 
Who beat the gallant train of Ehleypoolie, 
And bore away their prize. 
Mon. Oh, this is dreadful ! Clouds o'erlap- 

ping clouds 
Are weaving o'er our house an evil woof. — 
A fearful canopy. It was to us 
That ominous sign was sent, but few days 

past, 
When Boodhoo's rays,beneatli the noon'sblue 

dome 
With shiv'ring motion glcam'd in streaky 

brightness. 
Surpassing mid-day splendour. Woe is me . 
I saw it not unmov'd ; but little thought, 
Ah ! little thought of misery like this. 

Enter Juan de Creda. 
Welcome, De Creda; thou in hour of need 



THE BRIDE. 



431 



Art ever wise and helpful. Dost thou know 
Of this mobt strange event .' Of Samarkoon j 
As lawless spoiler by Rasinga conquer'd, 
And led 

Juan, f do; and come to entreat thee, Lady, 
That thou with thy enchafd and vengeful son 
May'st use a mother's influence to save him. 

Mon. Entreaties are not wanted, good De 
Creda, 
For herein I am zealous as thyself. 

Juan. He must not die. 

Mon. Nor shall, if I can save him. 

Juan. Then let us meet Rasinga, as he 
passes, 
Ere he can reach the shelter of his chamber, 
Where men are wont to cherish moody wrath ; 
And we will so beset him with our prayers, 
That we shall move his soul, if it be possible. 
The fair Artina too must come with us 
To beg her brother's life. 

Mon. Yes, be it so ; but first let us apprise 
her. 
And do it warily, lest sudden grief 
O'er whelm her totally. 

Juan. That will be necessary. 

And, Lady, let us find her instantly ; 
We have no time to spare. [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. — a gallery or pass.vge 

LEADING TO RASINGa'S CHAMBER. 

Enter Rasinga, speaking to an Officer who 
follows him. 

Ras. And let his dungeon be secured to 
the utmost 
With bolt and bars ; and set a double guard 
To watch the entry. Make it sure, I say ; 
For if thy prisoner escape, thy life 
Shall pay the forfeit. This thou knowest well. 
Therefore be vigilant. [Exit Officer. 

The very blood is boiling in my veins. 
Whilst the audacious braver of my rights. 
My arms, my honour, ev'n within a dungeon 
And manacled with iron, breathes vital air. 

Enter Montebesa by the farther end of the 
gallery, followed by Artina and Juan de 
Creda, who remain without advancing fur- 
ther, whilst she approaches her Son with an 
air of dignity. 

Mon. Rasinga, let a mother, who rejoices 
In every victory thy arms achieve. 
Be it o'er foreign, yea, or kindred foe, 
Greet thee right heartily. 
Ras. I thank you. Lady. 

Mon. But that my pride in thee may be 
unmixed 
With any sense of aught to taint thy glory, 
Grant me a boon that will enhance thy tri- 
umph. 
And make me say with full, elated heart, 
Rasinga is my son. 

Ras. Name it ; whate'er a man may grant 

is thine. 
Mon. The life of Samarkoon ; that is my 
boon. 



Ras. The life of Somarkoon! then thou 
dost ask 
The foul disgrace and ruin of thy son. 
Mon. Not so ; for thine own peace and fu- 
ture weal, 
I do adjure thee to be merciful. 
Ras. And would'st thou see the son whom 
thou did'st bear 
An unreveng'd, despis'd, derided man .' 
And have I got from thee and my brave sire 
This manly stature and these hands of strength 
To play an ideot's or a woman's part ? 
If such indeed be Montebesa's wish. 
Poor shght-bon'd, puny, shambling drivellers, 
Or sickly maidens, should have been the off- 
spring 
Produced by her to mock a noble house. 
Mon. O say not so ! there will be no dis- 
honour. 
Ras. What ! no dishonour in the mocking 
lips. 
And pointing fingers of the meanest peasant. 
Who would his whetted blade sheath in the 

heart 
Of his own mother's son for half the wrong, — 
Ay, half the wrong which that audacious 

traitor 
Has done to me ! — Cease, lady ; say no more : 
I cannot henceforth live in ignominy, 
Therefore, good sooth ! 1 cannot giant your 
boon. 
Art. {rushing forward and catching hold of 
his hand and his garments.) 
Dear, dear Rasinga ! wilt thou make my life 
One load of wretchedness .' Thou'st cast me 

oft;— 
I who so loved thee and love thee still, — 
Thou'st cast me off and I will meekly bear it. 
Then, wilt thou not make some amends to me 
In a sav'd brother's life, for all the tears. 
The bitter tears and anguish this has cost me .'' 
Ras. (shaking her off.) Thy plea is also 
vain ; away , away ! 
Thy tears and anguisli had been better com- 
forted. 
Had he a more successful spoiler proved. 
{Turning fiercely on Juan de Creda, who now 

advances.) 
Ha ! thou too art upon me ! Thou whose 

kindred 
And colleagues are of tliose who read good lore, 
And speak like holy saints, and act like fiends. 
By my brave father's soul, where'er it be. 
Thou art a seemly suitor for such favour ! 

{Bursts away from them and Exit.) 
Art. De Creda, good De Creda, dear De 
Creda ! 
Wilt thou not follow him .' 

Juan. Not now ; it were in vain ; I might 
as well, 
While wreck of unroof d cots and forest 

boughs, 
And sand and rooted herbage whirl aloft, 
Dark'ning the sky, bid the outrageous hurri- 
cane 
Spare a rock-cresting palm. — But yet despair 
not; 



432 



THE BRIDE. 



I'll find a season. Let me lead thee hence. 
Mon. I fear the fierceness of his uniam'd 

spirit 
Will never yield until it be too late ; 
And tlien he will in brooding, vain repentance, 
The more relimtless be to tuturc criminals ; 
As though the death of one he should have 

spared, 
Made it injustice e'er to spare another. 
1 know his dangerous nature all too well. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. — a prison. 

Samarkoon is discovered in chains ; a lamp 
burning on the ground near him, and a pitcher 
of water by it. 

Sam. And now the close of this my present 
beinjr, 
With a:ll its hopes, its hapi)inessand pain, 
Is near at Imnd, — a violent bloody close, 
Perhaps with added torture and disgrace. 
Oh, Kattragam, terrific deity ! 
Thy stern decrees have compass'd all this 

misery. 
Short, turbulent, and changeful, and disast'- 

rous, 
Hatli been this stage of my existence. What, 
When this is past, abides me in my progress 
To the still blessing of unvision'd rest. 
Who may imagine or conjecture ? — Blessing I 
Alas ! it is a dull unjoyous blessing 
To lose with consciousness of pain, all con- 
sciousness : 
The pleasure of sweet sounds and beauteous 

sights, 
Bride, sister, friends, — all vanish'd and ex- 
tinct, 
Tliat stilly, endless rest may be unbroken. 
Oh, oh I he is a miserable man, 
Who covets such a blessing ! — Hush, bad 

thoughts ! 
Rebellious, faithless thoughts ! My misery 
Is deep enough to make even this a blessing. 

Enter Artina. 

It cannot be ! is it some fantasy : 
Who and what art thou .' 
^^rt. (approaching him softly.) The thing I 

seem ; thy miserable sister. 
Sam. My gen'rous, loving sister, in her love 
Running such fearful risk to comfort me". 
^Irt. Nay, more than this, dear brother; 
more than comfort; 
1 come to set thee free. 

Sam. Has he relented .■' 

.ht. No, no ! Rasinga is most ruthless. I, 
By means of (his, (s.'unoing a signet) which, 

in our better days. 
It was my privilege to use at will. 
Have pass'd the guards, and may a short 

while hence 
By the same means return, — return in safety. 
Meantime let me undo those gallino- fetters ; 
I've brought fit tools, and thou shall teach me 
how. 



Sam. But can'st thou think the guards will 
let thee pass, 
Ev'n with thy signet, leading a companion ? 
It cannot be ; thou dost deceive thyself, 
Thy mis'ry and affection make thee foolish. 
Art. Not so; there is a secret passage yon- 
der. 
That stone (pointing to it) like many others 

in the wall. 
But rougher still ; (goes close to the stone and 
touches it) look at it ! take good heed, 
Has in its core a groove on which it turns : 
A man's full strength will move it, and des- 
pair 
Will make thee strong. 

Sa7n. Were two men's strength requir'd, I 
feel within me 
The means for such deliverance ; if, indeed, 
Thou hast not been deceiv'd by some false 
tale. 
.^rt. I'm not deceiv'd. But wait, when I 
am gone. 
With limbs yet seemingly enthrall'd, until 
The wary guard hath come to ascertain 
Thy presence here ;. and then, when he re- 
tires, 

Thou know'st the rest. — Haste, let me loose 

thy shackles. 
Is this the way .' 

(Kneeling down and using her implements for 
breaking the chains, which she draws from 
the folds of her role.) 

Sam. Well done, my most incomparable 
sister ! 
Affection seems to teach thee crafts-man's 
skill. 
Jlrt. This link is broken. 
Sam. So it is mdeed. 

If I am fated yet to live on earth, 
A prosp'rous man, I'll have thy figure graven, 
As now tiiou art, with implements in hand, 
And make of it a tutelary idol. 

Jlrt. (still loorking at the chains.) Ha ! thou 
speak'stcheerly now ; and thy chang- 
ed voice 
Is a good omen. Dost thou not remember 
How once in play I bound thy stripling limbs 
With braided reeds, as a mock criminal .' 
We little thought Another link is con- 
quered, 
And one alone remains. (Tries to unloose it.) 

But it is stubborn. 
Oh, if that 1 should now lack needed strength ! 
Vile, hateful link — give way ! 

Enter Rasinga, and she starts up, letting fall 

her tools on the ground. 

Ras. And thou art here, thou most rebel' 
lious woman ! 
A faithful spy had given me notice of it. 
And yet niethought it was impossible 
Thou could'st be so rebellious, so bereft 
Of female honour, matronly allegiance. 

Jlrt. Upbraid me not, my Lord ; I've at your 
leot 
Implor'd you to relent and spare his life, 
The last shoot of mv father's honour'd house. 



THE BRIDE. 



433 



But thou, with unrelenting tyranny, 
Hast chid ine from thee. — Matronly allegiance, 
Even in a favour'd and beloved wife, 
0"er-rules not every duty ; and to her, 
Who is despis'd, abandon'd, and disgraced, 
Can it be more imperious ? No, Rasinga ; 
I were unmeet to wear a woman's form, 
If, with the means to save my brother's life, 
Not implicating thine, I had from fear 
Of thy displeasure, grievous as it is, 
Forborne to use them. 

Ras. Ha ! such bold words to justify the 
act, 
Making rebellion virtue ! Such audacity 
Calls for the punishment which law provides 
For faithless and for disobedient wives. 

Sam. Rasinga, if that shameful threat be 
serious, 
Thou art the fellest, fiercest, meanest tyrant 
That e'er join'd human formlo demon's spirit. 

Ras. And dost thou also front me with a 
storm 
Of loud injurious clamoui*.' — ^Ho, without ! 

( Calling aloud off the stage.) 
1 came not here to hold a wordy v/ar 
With criminals and women. — Ho ! I say. 

Enter Guards. 

Secure the prisoner, and fasten tightly 

His unlock'd chains. — And, Lady, come thou 
instantly 

To such enthralment as becomes thy crime. 

[Exeunt Rasinga and Artina, who is led off 
by guards, u-liile motioning her last farewell 
to Samarkoon. The scene closes. 

Scene IX. — an apartment in the 

HOUSE OF MONTEBESA. 

Samar is discovered playing on the floor with 
toys, and Saeawatte sitting by him. 

Samar. {holding up a toy.) This is the pret- 
tiest plaything of them all : 
I will not use it till my mother come, 
Tliat she may see it fresh and beautiful. 
Sab. Alas, sweet Samar ! would that she 

were here ! 
Samar. Will she not soon .'' how long she 
stays away ! 
And she has been so kind to me of late. 
Sab. Was she not always kind.' 
Samar. Yes, always very kind, but since 
my father 
Has thought of that new bride — I hate that 

bride — 
And spoken to me seldom and with looks 
Not like his wonted looks, she has been kinder ; 
Has kiss'd me oftener, and has held me closer 
To her soft bosom. O she loves me dearly ! 
And dearly I love her! — Where is she now, 
Tiiat thou should'st say, " I would that she 
were here ! " 
Sab. Dear boy ! I may not tell thee. 
Samar. May not tell me ! 

Then she is in some sad and hateful place, 
Ahd I will go to her. 

54 



Sab. Ah no ! thou can'st not. 

Samar. I will ; what shall withhold me, 
Sabawatto .' 

Sab. Strong bolts and bars, dear child ! 

Samar. Is she in prison .' 

Sab. She is. 

Samar. And who hath dared to "put her 
there ? 

Sab. Thy father. 

Samar. Then he is a wicked man, 

Most cruel and most wicked. 
I'll stay no longer here ; I'll go to her; 
And if through bolts and bars I may not pass, 
I at her door will live, as my poor dog 
Close by my threshold lies and pines and 

moans 
When he's shut out from me. — I needs must 

Rooms are too good for me when she's in pri- 
son. 

Come, lead me to the place ; I charge thee 
do ; 

I'll stay no longer here. 

Enter Montebesa, and he runs to her, clasping 
her knees, and bursting into tears* 

Mon. What is the matter with thee, my 
dear child .-" (to Sabawatte.) Does he 
know aught ? 
Sab. I could not keep it from him. 
Samar. I know it all ; I know it all, good 
grandame. 
O take me to her ! take me to her prison. 
I'll be with her ; I'll be and bide with her ; 
No other place shall hold me. 

Mon. Be pacified, dear child ! be pacified, 
And I myself will take thee to thy mother : 
The guards will not refuse to let me pass. 
Weep not so bitterly, my own dear Samar ! 
Fy I wipe away those tears, and come with me. 
Sab. A blessing on you, madam, for this 
goodness ! 
It had been cruelty to keep him here. 

[EXEUKT. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — the private chamber op 
rasinga, who is discovered walk- 
ing backwards and forwards in 
great agitation. 

Ras. That I — that I alone must be restrain- 
ed ! 
The very meanest chief who holds a mansion. 
May therein take his pleasure with a second. 
When that his earlier wife begins to fade. 
Or that his wearied heart longs for another. 
Ay, this may be ; but I am deem'd a slave, 
Atam'd — a woman-bound — a simple fool, (af- 
ter a pajisf) 
Nor did I seek for it ; fate was my tempter. 
That face of beauty was by fate unveil'd ; 
And I must needs forbear to Icok upon it, 
Or looking, must forbear to love — Bold traitor ! 



434 



THE BRIDE. 



That ho should also, in that very moment, 
Catch the hrjght glimpse and dare to be my 

rival ! 
Fy, Ty I His jealous sister set him on. 
Why is my mind so rack'd and rent with 

this ? 
Jealous, rebellious, spiteful as she is, 
1 need not, will not look upon her punishment. 
Beneath the wat'ry gleam one moment's strug- 
gle, — 
No more but this, (tossing his arms in agony.) 
Oh, oh ! there was a time, 
A time but shortly past, when such a thought 
Had been the cords of life had snapt 

asunder 
At such a thought. — And it must come to this ! 

(after another perturbed -pause.) 
It needs must be ; I'm driven to the brink. 
What is a v/oman's life, or any life 
That poisons his repose for whom it flourish- 
ed .? 
1 would have cherish'd, honour'd her, yet 

she. 

Rejecting all, has ev'n to this extremity 

No, no ! it is that hateful fiend, her brother. 
Who for his damn'd desires and my dislion- 

our 
Hath urged her on. — The blood from his shorn 

trunk 
Shall to mine eyes be as the gushing fount 
To the parch'd pilgrim. — Blood ! but that 

his rank 
Forbids such execution, his marr'd carcass, 
A trampled mass — a spectacle of horror, 

Should-; the detested traitor ! 

(Noise at the door.) 
Who is there .'' 
Juan de Creda. (^without.) Juan de Creda: 

pray undo thy door. 
Ras. No, not to thee ; not even to thee, 

De Creda. 
Juan, (loilhout.) Nay, but thou must, or 

fail in honest truth. 
I have thy promise once again to see me 
Ere thy revengeful purpose take effect ; 
Yea, and 1 hold thee to it. 

Bas. Turn from my door, for thou since 

then hast seen me, 
And hast no further claim. 
Juan, (uuthout.) Tamper not so unfairly 

with thy words : 
1 saw thee as the forest peasant sees 
A hunted tiger passing to his lair. 
Is this sufficient to acquit thee ? No ; 
I claim thy promise still, as unrodeem'd. 
Unbar thy chamber door, and let me in. 

lias, (opening the door, and us Jann caters.) 
Come in, come in then, if it must be so. 
(s misery a pleasant sight to thee. 
That thou dost pray and beg to look upon it ? 
Juan. Forgive me, brave Rasinga, if 1 say, 
The mis'ry of thine alter'd face, to me 
Is sight more welcome than a brow composed. 
But 'tis again to change that haggard face 
To the composure of a peaceful mind, 
That I am come. — O deign to listen to me ! 



Let me beseech thee not to wreck thy happi- 
ness 
For fell revenge ! 

Kas. Well, well ; and were it so, 

I wreck my happiness to save my honour. 
Juan. To save thine honour .'' 
Has. Yes ; the meanest slave 

That turns the stubborn soil with dropping 

brow, 
Would hold an outraged, unrevenged chief 
As more contemptible than torpid reptile 
That cannot sting the foot which treads upon 
it. 
Juan. When fear or sordid motives are im- 
puted 
As causes why revenge hath been forborne, 
Contempt will follow, from the natural feel- 
ings 
Of every breast, or savage or instfucted. 
But when tlie vahant and the generous par- 
don, 
Ev'n instantly as lightning rends the trunk 
Of the strong Nahftgaha, pride o' the wood, 
A kindred gTow of admiration passes 
Through every manly bosom, proving surely, 
That men are brethren, children of one sire, 
The ijoncl of heaven and earth. 

lias. Perplex me not with vain and lofty 
words, 
Which to the stunn'd car of an injur'd man 
Are like the fitful sounds of a swoln torrent. 
Noble, but void of all distinctive meaning. 
Juan. Their meaning is distinct as well as 
noble ; 
Teaching to froward man the will of God. 
Has. And who taught thee to know this 

will of God.? 
Juan. Our sacred Scripture. 
Ras. V/hat ' jour Christian Scripture, 
Which, as I have been told, hath bred more 

discord 
Than all the other firebrands of the earth, 
With church oppos'd to church and sect to 

sect, 
In fierce contention ; ay, fell bloody strife. 
Certes, if all from the same book be taught, 
Its words may have, as I before have said, 
A noble sound, but no distinctive meaning. 
Junn. That which thou hast been told of 
shameful discord. 
Perversely drawn from the pure source of 

peace. 
Is true ; and yet it is a book of wasdom. 
Whose clear, important, general truths may 

guide 
The simplest and 'the wisest: truths which 

still 
Have been by every church and sect acknow- 
ledged. 
Ras. And what, I pray, are these acknow- 
ledged precepts 
Which they'but learn, it seems, to disobey.' 
Juan. The love of God, and of that blessed 
Being, 
Sent in his love to teach his will to men; 
Imploring them their hearts to purify 



THE BRIDE. 



435 



From hatred, wrong, and ev'ry sensual ex- 
cess. 
That in a happier world, when this is past, 
They may enjoy true blessedness forever. 
Ras. Then why hold all this coil concern- 
ing that 
Which is so plain, and excellent, and acknow- 
ledged ? 
Juan. Because they have in busy restless 
zeal 
Rais'd to importance slight and trivial parts ; 
Contending for them, till they have at last 
Belie v'd them of more moment, ev'n than all 
The plain and lib'ral tenor of the whole. 
As if we should maintain a wart or mole 
To be the main distinctions of a man, 
Rather than the fair brow and upright form, — 
The graceful, general lineaments of nature. 
Ras. This is indeed most strange : how 

hath it been ? 
Juan. The Scripture lay before them like 
the sky 
With all its glorious stars, in some smooth 

pool 
Clearly reflected, till in busy idleness. 
Like children gath'ring pebbles on its brink. 
Each needs must cast his mite of learning in 
To try its depth, till sky and stars, and glory. 
Become one wrinkled maze of wild confusion. 
But that good Scripture and its blessed Author 
Stand far and far apart from all this coil. 
As the bright sky from the distorted surface 
Of broken waters wherein it was imaged. 
Ras. And this good Scripture does, as thou 
belie vest, 
Contain the will of God. 

Juan. I do believe it. 

And therein is a noble duty taught. 
To pardon injuries, — to pardon enemies. 
Ras. I do not doubt it. 'Tis an easy mat- 
ter 
For holy sage or prophet in his cell. 
Who lives aloof from wrongs and injuries 
Which other men endure, to teach such pre- 
cepts. 
Juan. Most justly urged : but he who ut- 
ter'd this 
Did not enforce it at a rate so easy. 
Though proved by many good and marv'llous 

acts 
To be the mission'd Son of the Most High, 
He meekly bore the wrongs of wicked men ; 
And, in the agonies of crucifixion, 
The cruel death he died, did from his cross 
Look up to heaven in earnest supplication 
Ev'n for the men who were inflicting on him 
Those shameful sulT rings, — pardon ev'n for 
them. 
Ras. {lowing his head, and covering Jus 
face with his hands.) Indeed, in- 
deed, this was a noble Being. 
Juan. Ay, brave Rasinga; ireful as thou art. 
Thou hast a heart to own such excellence. 

(Laying his hand .soothingly on Rasinga's.) 
And do consider too how he who wrong'd 

thee, — 
The youthful Samarkoon 



Ras. {shaldng off his hand impatiently.) 

Name not the villain. 

Juan. That epithet belongs not to a youth. 

Who in the fever'd madness of strong passion, 

By beauty kindled, goaded by despair. 

Perhaps with sympathy, for that he deem'd 

A sister's sorrows 

Ras. Hold thy peace, De Creda ; 

Thy words exasperate and stir within me 
The half-spent flames of wrath. 
He is a villain, an audacious villam ; ^ 
A most ungrateful, cunning, artful villain. 
Leave me, I charge thee, lest thou utter that 
Which might provoke me to unseemly out- 
rage. 

I owe my life to thee, and but for that 

Leave me, I charge thee. 
Juan. I do not fear what thou may'st do to 

me. 
Ras. No ; but / fear it, therefore quit me 
instantly. 
Out, out ! {Opening the door and -pushing him 

atcay.) 
Ho ! Elileypoolie ! ye who wait without, 
I want your presence here. [Exit Juan. 

Enter Ehletpoolie and Mihdoony. 

Ehl. {after having tcaitcd some time to re- 
ceive the commands of his master, 
who without noticing him zcalks about 
the chamber in violent agitation.) 
My Lord, we humbly wait for your 
commands. {aside to Mihdoony.) 
He heeds us not: as though we were not 
here. (aloud.) 

We humbly wait, my Lord, to know your 
pleasure. 

Ras. My pleasure is 

'{Stopping and looking lewildered.) 
I know not what it is. 

Jl/i/t. Perhaps, my Lord, you wish to coun- 
termand 
Some orders that regard the executions, 
Fix'd for to-morrow, at an hour so early. 
Ras. When did Rasinga countermand his 
orders, 
So call'd for, and so given i" — Why wait ye 
here .'' 
Ehl. You call'd for us, my Lord ; and v^ell 
you know 
That Ehleypoolie hath a ready aptness 

For 

Ras. Boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies. 
Be gone, I say ; I did not call for you. 
At least I meant it not. 

( Turns aicay hastily and exit by another door.) 
Ehl. For boasting, fooling, flattery, and lies! 
How angry men pervert all sober judgment! 
If I commend myself, who like myself 
Can know so vvell my actual claims to praise ? 
Mih. Most true, for surely no one else doth 

know it. 
Ehl. And fooling is an angry name for wit. 
Mih. Thy wit is fooling, therefore it should 
seem 
Thy fooling may be wit. Then for thy flat- 
tery, 



436 



THE BRIDE. 



What dost thou say to that ? 

Eld. Had he dislik'd it, 

It had been dealt to him in scantier measure. 
And lies — to hear a prince whose fitful hu- 
mours 
Can mar or make tlie vassals who surround 

him, 
Name this as special cliarge on any one ! 
His violent passions have reduced his judg- 
ment 
To very childishness. 
Mill. But dost thou think the fierceness of 
his wrath 
Will make him really bring to execution 
A wife who has so long and dearly loved him .' 
Eld. How should I know what he will real- 
ly do? 
The words he spoke to me ev'n now may 

show thee 
His judgment is obscured. But if he do. 
Where is the harm when faded wives are cross 
And will not live in quietness with a younger, 
To help them on a step to their Newane t 
She never favour'd me, that dame Artina, 
And I foresaw she would not come to good. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — a large court or open 
space with every thing prepared 

FOR THE EXECUTION OF SAMARKOON: 
A SEAT OF STATE NEAR THE FRONT 
OF THE STAGE. 

Spectators and Guards discovered. 

First Spec. There is a mass of life assem- 
bled here : 
All eyes, no voice ; there is not even the mur- 
mur 
Of stifled whispers.^ — Deep and solemn si- 
lence ! 
Second Spec. Hush, hush ! Artnia comes, 
and by her side. 
Her son in the habiliments of one 
Prepared for death. This surely cannot be : 
It is impossible. 

First Spec. I hope it is. 

Enter Artina and Samar, with Sabawatte 
on the one side of them, and Juan de Creda 
on the other 3 attendants following. 

^rt. Alas, for thee, my noble, orenerous 

child! 
Samar. Fear not for me, dear mother ! 
Lean upon me. 
JVay, let me feel your hand press'd on my 

shoulder, 
Press'd more upon me still. It pleases me, 
Weak as I am, to think I am thy prop. 
Art. O what a })rop thou would'st have 
been to me ! 
And wJiat a creature for a loathly grave, — 
For death to prey upon ! — Turn, turn ! Oh, 

turn ! 
Advance no further on this dreadful path. 
Samar. 1 came not here to turn ; and for 
the path, 



And what it leads to, if you can endure it, 
Then so can I : — fear not for me, dear mother ' 
Nay, do not fear at all ; 'twill soon be over. 
Jh-t. Oh ! my brave heart ! my anguish 
and my pride. 

Even on the very margin of the grave. 

Good Sabawatte ! hold him ; take him from 
me. 
Sab. I cannot, madam ; and De Creda says, 
'Tis best tiiat you should yield to his desire. 
Art. It is a fearful — an appalling risk. 
Sab. Is there aught else that you would 

charge me with > 
Art. Yes, dearest friend, there is — it is my 
last. 
Let not my little daughters know of this; 
They are too young to miss me. Little Moora 
Will soon forget that she has seen my face ; 
Therefore whoe'er is kind to them they'll 

love. 
Say this to her, who will so shortly fill 
Their mother's place, and she will pity them. 
Add, if thou wilt, that I such gentle dealings 
Expected from her hands, and bade thee teach 

them 
To love and honour her. 

Sab. My heart will burst in uttering sdch 

words. 
Art. Yet for my sake thou'lt do it } wilt 
thou not .' 
('Sabawatte motions assent, hut cannot speak.) 

Enter Samarkoon, chained and guarded. 

Art. {rushing on to meet him.) My brother, 

my young Samarkoon, my brother, 
Whom 1 so lov'd in early, happy days; 
Thou top and blossom of my father's house ! 
Sam. Weep not, my sister, death brings 

sure relief; 
And many a brave man's son has died the 

death 
That now abideth me. 

Art. Alas ! ere that bright sun which shines 

so brightly 
Shall reach his noon, of my brave father's race 
No male descendant shall remain alive, — 
Not one to wear the honours of his name. 
And I the cursed cause of all this wreck ! 
Oh, what was I, that I presumptuously 
Should think to keep his undivided heart ! 
'Twere better I had liv'd a drudge, — a slave, 
To do the meanest service of his house. 
Than see thee thus, my hapless, noble brother. 
Sam. Lament not, gentle sister ; to have 

seen thee 
Debased and scorn'd, and that most wond'- 

rous creature, 
Whose name I will not utter, made the means 
Of vexing thee — it would have driven me 

frantic. 
Then do not thus lament ; nor think that I 
Of aught accuse thee. Let us now take 

leave. 
In love most dearly link'd, which only death 

Has power to sever. 

{to Samar, as first observing him.) 
Boy, why art thou here : 



THE BRIDE. 



437 



Saviar. To be my mother's partner and 
companion. 
'Tis meet ; for who but me should cling to 

her ? 

Enter Rasinga, and places himself in the seat : 
a deep silence follows for a considerable time. 

Mill, {who has kept guard with his spearmen 
over Samarkoon, now approaching 
Rasinga.) The hour is past, my 
Lord, which was appointed ; 
And you commanded me to give you notice. 
Is it your pleasure that the executioners 
Proceed to do their office on the prisoners, 
Who are all three prepared ? 

Ras. What dost thou say .' 

Mih. The three prepared for death abide 

your signal. 
Ras. There are but two. 
Mih. Foraive opposing words, there is a 

thi'rd. 
Ras. A third, say'st thou.' and who.' 
Mih. Your son, my Lord ; 

A volunteer for death, whom no persuasion 
Can move to be divided from his mother. 

Ras. I cannot credit this ; it is some craft, — 
Some poor device. Go, bring the boy to me. 
(Mihdoony leads Samar to his father.) 
Why art thou here, my child .'' and is it so, 
That thou dost wish to die .' 

Samar. I wish to be where'er my mother 
is, 
Alive or dead. 

Ras. Think well of what thou say'st ! 

It shall be so if thou indeed desire it. 
But be advised ; death is a dreadful thing. 
Samar. They say it is : but I will be with 
her; 
I'll die her death, and feel but what sjie suf- 
fers. 
Ras. And art thou not afraid ? Thou'rt ig- 
norant ; 
Thou dost not know the misery of drown- 
ing ; — 
The booming waters closing over thee, 
And thou still sinking, struggling in the tank, 
On whose deep bottom, weeds and water 

snakes. 
And filthy lizards will around thee twine. 
Whilst thou art choaking. It is horrible. 
Samar. The death that is appointed for my 
mother 
Is good enough for me. We'll be together : 
Clinging to her I shall not be afraid, 
No, nor will she. 

Ras. But wherefore wilt thou leave thy 
father, Samar .-' 
Thou'st not offended me ; I love thee dearly ; 
I have no son but thee. 

Samar. But thou wilt soon. 

Thy new young wife will give thee soon 

another, 
And he will be thy son ; but I will be 
Son of Artina. We'll be still together : 
When in the form of antelope or looric. 
She wends her way to Boodhoo, I shall still 
Be as her young-one, sporting by her side. 



Ras. (catching him in his arms and bursting 
into tears.) 
My generous boy ! my noble valiant boy ! 
O sucli a son bestowed on such a father ! 
Live, noble creature ! and thy mother also ! 
Her crime is pardon'd if it was a crime ; 
Ye shall not be divided. 

Samar. {running back to Aitinai.) O mother ! 
raise your eyes 1 you are to live ; 
We're both to live, my father says we are. 
And he has wept and he has kiss'd me too. 
As he was wont to do, ay, fonder far. 
Come, come ! (Pullins her toioards Rasmga,) 
He's good, you^need not fear lum now. 
Ras. Artina, that brave child has won thy 
life; 

And he hath won for me 1 have no 

words 
That can express what he hath won for me. 
But thou art sad and silent ; how is this, 
With life and such a son to make life sweet .' 
Art. 1 have a son, but my brave father, 
soon. — 
Who died an honour'd death, and in his grave 
Lies like an honour'd chief,— will have no 

son, 
No male descendant, living on the earth 
To keep his name and lineage from extinction. 
(Rasinga throws himself into his seat and 

buries his face in his mantle,) 
First Spec, {in a loic voice.) Well tuned and 
wisely spoken : 'tis a woman. 
Worthy to be the mother of that boy. 

Second Spec, {in a loio voice to the first.) 
Look, look, I pray thee, liow Rasinga's 

breast 
Rises and falls beneath its silken vesture. 
First Spec, {as before.) There is within a 
dreadful conflict passing. 
Known by these tokens, as swoln waves aloft 
Betray the secret earthquake's deep-pent 
struggles. 
Second Spec, {as before.) But he is calmer 
now, and puts away 
The cover from his face : he seems relieved. 
Ras. {looking round him.) Approach, De 
Creda ; thou hast stood aloof : 
Thou feel'st my late rude passion and unkind- 

ness. 
Misery makes better men than me unkind ; 
But pardon me and I will make amends. 
I would not listen to thy friendly council. 
But now I will most fr<?ely grant to thee 
Whatever grace or favour thou desirest. 
Even now before thou nam'st it. 

Juan. Thanks, thanks, Rasinga I this is 
brave amends. 
{Runs to Samarkoon aiid commands his chains 
to be knocked off, and speaking impatiently as 
it is doing.) 
Out on such tardy bungUng ! Ye are crafts- 
men 
Who know full well the art to bmd men's 

limbs. 
But not to set them free. 

{Leads Samarkoon inhen unhmiud toivards 
Rasinga, speaking to him as thcij go.) 



433 



THE BRIDE. 



Come, noble Saiuarkoon ! nay, look more 

gracious : 
If tliou clisdain'st to thank him for thy life, 
Tliat falls to me, and I will do it gladly. 

{Presenting Samarkoon to Rasinga.) 
This is tiie boon vvliich thou hast granted ine, 
Tiie life of Samarkoon ; a boon more precious 
To him who grants than who receives it. Yet 
Take my most ardent thanks ; take many 

thanks 
From other grateful bosoms, beating near 

thee. 
/Irt. {kneeling to embrace the knees of Rasin- 
ga.) And mine ; O mine ! wilt thou 

iiot luck upon me ? 
I do not now repine that thou art changed : 
Be happy witii another fairer dame, 
It shall not grieve me now. 

lias, (raiding her.) Away, Artina ! do not 

thank me thus. 
Remove her, iSamarkoon, a little space. 

( Having them off.) 
Juan De Creda, art thou satisfied c 
Have 1 done well .' 

Juan. Yes, I am satisfied. 

lias, {drawing himself tip with dignity.) 
But i am not ; and that which 1 have done 
Would not have satisfied the generous Saviour 
Who died upon tlie cross. — 'I'hy friend is par- 

don'd. 
And more than pardond ; — he is now my 

brother, 
And 1 to him resign the mountain bride. 
(.4 shuui of joy huisLsfrom all around : Artina 
fulds tSainar to her breast, and Samarkoon 
falls at the feet o/ Rasinga.) 
Sam. My noble generous foe, whom 1 have 

wrong'd. 
Urged by strong passions, wrong'd most griev- 
ously I 
Now may I kneel to thee without disgrace, 
For thou hast bound me with those bands of 

strength 
That do ennoble, not disgrace the bravest. 
lias. Rise, Samarkoon ; 1 do accept thy 

thanks, 
Since that which I resign is worth But 

cease ! 
Speak not of this — if it be possible. 
We 11 think of this no more. 

{turning to Artina.) 
And now my only and my noble wife, 
And thou, iny dauntless boy, stand by my 

side, 
And I, so Uank'd, will feel myself in honour, — 
Honour which lifts and warms and cheers the 

heart. 
An J we shall have a feast within our walls ; 
Our good De Creda, he will tarry with us; 
He will not go to-morrow, as he threaten'd. 
Juan. I'll tstay with you a day beyond the 

time, 
And then 1 must depart : a pressing duty 
Compels me so to do. 

Ras. But thou'lt return again, and brino- 

witli thee 



The sacred Book which thou hast told me of.'' 
Juan. I will return again and bring that 
Book, 
If Heaven permit. But man's uncertain life 
Is like a rain-drop hanging on the bough, 
Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kin- 
dred. 
The remnants of some passing thunder show- 
er. 
Who have their moments, dropping one by 

one, 
And which shall soonest lose its per'loua 
hold 

We cannot guess. 

1, on the Continent, must for a time 
A wand'rer be ; if I return no more, 
You may conclude death has prevented me. 

Enter Montebesa, 

Ras. Ha, mother ! welcome, welcome Mon- 
tebesa ! 
There; take again your daughter and her 

boy. 
We've striven stoutly with a fearful storm, 
But, thanks to good De Creda, it is past : 
And all the brighter shall our sky appear, 
For that the clouds which have obscured its 

face. 
Were of a denseness dark and terrible. 



NOTES. 

Note I. p. 421. 

" fVitk bleeding limbs drained by a hundred 
leeches." 

Very small leeches which infest many of 
the woods of Ceylon, and torment travellers. 

. Note II. p. 423. 

-" Doombra's mountain ridge 



Dividing ardent heal from chilling clouds," 

A high mountainous ridge in Ceylon, where 
the one side is sunny, clear, and warm, the 
other cloudy, wet, and cold. 

Note III. p. 425. 
" Ev'n like Niicanc when the virtuous soul," ^c. 
The final reward of the virtuous after death, 
according to the Boodhoo religion, is perfect 
rest or insensibility ; and that state, or the re- 
gion in which it takes place, is called Niwane. 

Note IV. p. 430. 
" IVhen Boodhoo' s rays, beneath the noon's blue 
dome," i^"C. 

Bright rays which appear in the middle of 
the day, surpassing the brightness of the sun, 
and are supposed to foretel evil. 

Note V. p. 432. 
" Oh Kattragam, terrific dcitu .'" ^'C. 

The name of the Cingalese Spirit of Evil, 
or God of Destruction. 



PREFACE TO THE MARTYR 



Of all the principles of human action, Re- 
ligion is the strongest. It is often, indeed, 
overcome by others, and even by those which 
may be considered as very weak antagonists ; 
yet, on great emergencies it surmounts them 
all, and it is master of them all for general 
and continued operation. In every country 
and nation, under some form or other, though 
often dark and distorted, it holds warfare with 
vice and immorality ; either by destroying 
corrupted selfishness, or by rendering it tri- 
butary. And dear and intolerable to the feel- 
ings of nature are the tributes it will volun- 
tarily ofler, — fasting, scourging, wounds and 
liumiliation ; — the humiliation of all worldly 
distinction, when the light of reason as well 
as the robe of dignity are thrown aside. A 
great philosophical writer* of our own days, 
alter having mentioned some of the sceptical 
works of Hume, says, " Should not rather the 
melancholy histories which he has exhibited 
of the follies and caprices of superstition, di- 
rect our attention to those sacred and indeli- 
ble characters of the human mind, which all 
these perversions of reason are unable to ob- 
literate — ? * * K « jj^j truth, the more 
striking the contradictions, and the more ludi- 
crous the ceremonies, to which the pride of 
humaji rea,son has thus been reconciled, the 
stronger is our evidence that Religion has a 
foundation in the nature of man. * * « » 
* * * " Where are those truths, in the 
whole circle of the sciences, which are so es- 
sential to human happiness, as to procure an 
easy access, not only for themselves, but for 
whatever opinions may happen to be blended 
with them ? Where are the truths so vener- 
able and commanding, as to impart their own 
sublimity to every mode of expression by 
which they are conveyed ; and which, in 
whatever scene they have habitually occupied 
the thoughts, consecrate every object which 
it presents to our senses, and the very ground 
we have been accustomed to tread ? To at- 
tempt to weaken the authority of such impres- 
sions, by a detail of the endless variety of 
forms which they derive from casual associa- 
tion, is surely an employment unsuitable to 
the dignity of philosophy. To the vulgar it 
may be amusing in this as in other instances, 
to indulge their wonder at what is new or 
uncommon ; but to the philosopher it belongs 
to perceive, under ail these various disguises, 
the workings of the same common nature ; 
and in the superstitions of Egypt no less than 
in the lofty visions of Plato, to recognize the 



* Stewart's Elements of the Philosophy of tl;e 
Human Mind, vol. i. p. 368. 



existence of those moral ties which unite the- 
heart of man to the Author of his being." 

Many various circumstances, which il suits 
not my present purpose to mention, have pro- 
duced this combination of gloomy, cruel, and 
absurd superstitions with Religion, even in 
nations and eras possessing much refmement 
of literature and perfection of the arts. But 
Religion, when more happil3' situated, grows 
from a principle into an aftection, — an exalted, 
adoring devotion ; and is then to be regarded 
as the greatest and noblest emotion of the 
heart. Considering it in this ligiit, I have 
ventured, with diifidence and awe, to make it 
the subject of the following Drama. 

The Martyr, whom 1 have endeavoured to 
pourtray, is of a class which I believe to have 
been very rare, except in the first ages of 
Christianity. There liave been many Mar- 
tyrs in the Vviorld. Some have sacrificed their 
lives for tlie cause of Reformation in the 
Church, with the zeal and benevolence of 
patriotism : some for the maintenance ■ f its 
ancient doctrines and rites, with the courage 
of soldiers in the breach of their beleaguered 
city : some for intricate points of doctrine, 
with the fire of coiilrovertists, and the honour 
of men who disdained to compromise what 
they helievcd to be the truth, or under im- 
pressions of conscience which they durst not 
disobe)^ ; but, from the pure devoted love of 
God, as the great Creator and benevolent 
Parent of men, few have suftered but when 
Christianity was in its simplest and most per- 
fect state, and more immediately contrasted 
with the mean, cheerless conceptions and pop- 
ular fables of Paganism. 

We may well imagine that, compared to 
the heathen deities, those partial patrons of 
nations and individuals, at discord aniengst 
themselves, and .invested with the passions 
and frailties of men, the great and holy God, 
feather oi all mankind, as revealed in the 
Christian Faith, must have been an idea most 
elevating, delightful, and consonant to every 
thing noble and generous in the human un- 
derstanding or heart. Even to those who, 
from the opinions of their greatest phikso- 
phcrs, had soared above vulgar belief to one 
universal God, removed in his greatness from 
all care or concern for his creatures, the char- 
acter of the Almighty God and beneficent 
Parent joined, who cares for the meanest of 
his work.s, must have been most animating 
and sublime, supposing them to be at the same 
time unwarped by the toils and pride of learn- 
ing. 

But when the life and character of Jesus 
Christ, so different from every character that 



440 



PREFACE TO THE MARTYR. 



had ever appeared upon earth, was unfolded 
to them as the Son, and sent of God, — sent 
from heaven to declare his will on earth, and 
with the love of an elder brother, to win us 
on to the attainment of an exalted state of 
happiness, which we had forfeited, — sent to 
suffer and intercede for benighted wanderers, 
who were outcasts from their Father's house ; 
•can we conceive mingled feelings of gratitude, 
adoration, and love, more fervent, and more 
powerfully commanding the soul and imagi- 
nation of man, than those which must then 
have been excited by this primitive promul- 
gation of the Gospel ? Such converts, too, 
were called from the uncertain hope (if hope 
it might be termed) of a dreary, listless, in- 
active existence after death, so little desira- 
ble, that their greatest poet makes his noblest 
hero declare, he would prefer being the mean- 
est hind who breathes the upper air, to the 
highest honours of tliat dismal state. 

" Through the thick gloom his friend Achilles 
knew, 
And as be speaks the tears descend in dew ; 

Com'st thou alive to view the Stygian bounds, 
Where the wan spectres walk eternal roundsj 
Nor fear'st the dark and dismal waste to tread, 
Throng'd with pale ghosts, familiar with the dead ? 

To whom with sighs : 1 pass these dreadful 
gates 
To seek the Theban, and consult the fates : 
For still distrcss'd 1 roam from coast to coast, 
Lost to my friends, and to my country lost. 
But sure the eye of time beholds no name 
So bless'd as thine in all the rolls of fame j 
Alive we luiil'd thee with oar guardian gods, 
And dead, thou rul'st a king in these abodes. 

Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, 
Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my 

doom ; 
Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear 
A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, 
A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, 
Than reign the scepter'd monarch of the dead."* 

They were called, I repeat it, from hopes like 
these to the assurance of a future iife, so joy- 
ful, active, spiritual and glorious, that the 
present faded in the imagination from before 
it as a shadow. '• Eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard, neither hath it entered into the heart, 
the joy that is prepared for those who love 
God," is one of the many expressions of the 
Christian apostles on this lofty tlieme ; who 
counted the greatest happiness of tiie present 
life as unworthy to be compared to the rewards 
of the rightcouj after death, where, accordino- 
to their different degrees of Vv'orth, unsullied 
with any feeling of envy, they should shine 
in their blessedness as one star differeth from 
another star in glory. A transition from pros- 
pects so mean and depressing as the former 
to hopes so dignified, spiritual and animating 
as tiie latter, might well have a power over 
the mind which nothing could shake or sub- 
due ; and this transition none but the first 



* Pope's Odyssey, 11th book. 



race of Christians could experience, at least 
in so great a degree. 

And those enlarged conceptions, those en- 
nobling and invigorating hopes came to them 
in the pure simplicity of the Gospel as taught 
by Christ and his apostles. They had no 
subtile points of faith mixed with them as 
matters of necessary belief, which the fathers 
of succeeding times, and too often the pigus 
missionaries of the present, have pressed upon 
their bewildered converts with greater perse- 
verance and earnestness than the general pre- 
cepts and hopes of Christianity.* Those an- 
cient converts also had before their eyes a 
testimony of heroic endurance which till then 
had been unknown to the world. Who, in 
preceding times, had given his body to the 
flames for his belief in any religious notions, 
taught or entertained by the learned or un- 
learned ? It was a tiling hitherto unknown 
to the heathens ; and it is not very marvel- 
lous that abstract doctrines of philosophers, 
taught to their disciples as such, or popular 
deities, many in number, and of local, limited 
power, with moral attributes ascribed to them 
inferior to those of a virtuous mortal man, 
should be httle calculated to raise those strong- 
excitements in the mind, from which religious 
persecutionsdidatfirstproceedarnongst Chris- 
tians, who, from intemperate zeal and narrow 
conceptions, deemed a right belief in every 
doctrine of the Church necessary to salvation. 
Diana of the Ephesians could peaceably hold 
her state in conjunction with any god or god- 
dess of Greece, Scythia, Persia, or Egypt; but 
this toleration which proceeded from any cause 
rather than the excellence of their religion, 
was changed into the most bloody and fero- 
cious persecutions upon the divulging of a 

■ * Dr. Samnel Clarke, in a sermon on the Pow- 
ers and Wisdom of the Gospel, hath this passage : 
" And whereas the best and greatest philosophers 
were in continual disputes, and in many degrees 
of uncertainty, concerning the very fundamen- 
tals and most important doctrines of truth and 
reason, amongst those, on the contrary, who em- 
braced the Gospel of Christ, there never was 
the least room for dispute about any fundamental ; 
all Christians at all times and in all places having 
ever been baptized into the profession of the 
same faith and into an obligation to obey the 
same commandments. And it being notorious 
that all the contentions that ever arose in the 
Christian world have been merely about seTeral 
additions whicli every .sect and party, in direct 
contradiction to the express command of their 
Master, have endeavoured presumptuously to an- 
nex by their own authority to his doctrines and 
to his laws. How much, therefore, and how just 
ground soever has been given by those who call 
themselves Christians to the reproach of them 
which are without, yet Christ himself, that is, 
the Gospel in its native simpHcity as delivered 
by him, has abundantly to all reasonable persons 
among the Gentiles manifested itself to be the 
wisdom of God ; as well as it appeared to be the 
power of God in signs and wonders to the Jews." 
— Clarke's Sermons, vol. v. Serni. V2Xh. 



PREFACE TO THE MARTYR. 



441 



faith which was altogether incompatible with 
their theologies, and must therefore, should it 
prevail, overturn them entirely. Under these 
circumstances, the most enlightened Pagans, 
whose toleration has so often been praised, 
became the first persecutors, and Christians, 
the first martyrs. And then it was that a new 
spectacle was exhibited to mankind ; then it 
was that the sublimity of man's immortal soul 
shone forth in glory which seemed supernat- 
ural. Men and women, young and old, suf- 
fered for their faith all that flesh and blood 
can suflfer ; yea, -joyfully and triumphantly. 

In beholding such terrific and interesting 
spectacles, many were led to inquire into the 
cause of such super-human resolution, and 
became converts and martyrs in their turn ; 
and it will be found, in the accounts of those 
ancient persecutions, that many Roman sol- 
diers, and sometimes officers of high rank, 
were amongst the earlier Christians who laid 
down their lives for their religion. It v>'as in- 
deed natural that the invincible fortitude of 
those holy sufferers, fronting death with such 
noble intrepidit}^, should attract the admira- 
tion and sympathy of the generous and brave, 
whose pride it was to meet death undaunted- 
ly in a less terrific form ; and we may easily 
imagine also, that a generous and elevated 
mind, under the immediate pressure of such 
odious tyranny as some of the Roman empe- 
rors exercised on their senators and courtiers, 
would turn from this humiliating bondage to 
that promise of a Father's house in which 
there are many mansions, and turn to it with 
most longing and earnest aspirations. The 
brave man, bred in the camp and the field, 
encompassed with hardships and dangers, 
would be little encumbered with learning or 
philosophy, therefore more open to convic- 
tion ; and when returned from the scenes of 
his distant warfare, would more indignantly 
submit to the capricious will of a voluptuous 
master. These considerations have led me to 
the choice of my hero, and have warranted 
me in representing him as a noble Roman 
soldier : — one whose mind is filled with ador- 
ing awe and admiration of the sublime, but 
parental character of the Deity, which is for 
the first time unfolded to him by the early 
teachers of Cln-istianity ; — one whose heart is 
attracted by the beautiful purity, refinement, 
and benignant tenderness, and by the ineffa- 
ble generosity of him who visited earth as 
his commissioned Son,— attracted powerfully, 
with that ardour of affectionate admiration 
which binds a devoted follower to his glorious 
chief. 

But though we may well suppose unlearned 
soldiers to be the most unprejudiced and ar- 
dent of the early Christian proselytes, we 
have good reason to believe that the most en- 
lightened minds of those days might be strong- 
ly moved and attracted by the first view of 
Christianity in its pure, uncorrupted state. 
All their previous notions of religion, as has 
55 



been already said, whether drawn from a pop- 
ular or philosophical source, were poor and 
heartless compared to this. Their ideas on 
the subject, which I have already quoted, 
having passed through the thoughts and im- 
agination of their greatest poet, could surely 
contract no meanness nor frigidit}^ there, but 
must be considered as represented in the most 
favourable light which their received behef 
could possibly admit. We must place our- 
selves in the real situation of those men, pre- 
vious to their knowledge of the sacred Scrip- 
ture, and not take it for granted that those 
elevated conceptions of the Supreme Being 
and his paternal Providence which modern 
deists have in fact, though unwilling to own 
it, received from the Christian revelation, 
belonged to them. It has been observed by 
an author, whose name I ought not to have 
forgotten, that the ideas of the Deity expressed 
in the writings of philosophers, subsequently 
to the Christian era, are more clear and sub- 
lime than those which are to be found in 
heathen writers of an earlier period. 1 there- 
fore represent him also as a Roman, cultiva- 
ted, contemplative, and refined. 

Martyrs of this rank and character were 
not, I own, mentioned amongst those belong- 
ing to the first persecutions under Nero, but 
in those which followed, during the first and 
second century of the Christian era, when 
the stories which had been propagated of the 
shocking superstitions and wickedness of the 
sect began to lose their credit. But I con- 
ceive myself warranted to take this liberty, 
as the supposed recentness of the promulga- 
tion of the Gospel gives (if I may so express 
it) a greater degree of zest to the story, and 
by no means alters the principles and feelings 
which must have actuated the martyrs, this 
whole period being still that of pure Chris- 
tianity unencumbered with many perplexing 
and contradictory doctrines which followed, 
when churchmen had leisure to overlay the 
sacred Scriptures with a multitude of explan- 
atory dissertations, and with perverse, pre- 
sumptuous ino-enuity to explain the plain pas- 
sages by the obscure, instead of the obscure 
by the plain. 

In this representation of religious devotion 
in its early primitive state, it has been my 
desire to keep clear from all fanatical excess 
which in after times too often expressed itself 
in the wildest incoherent rhapsodies ; the lan- 
guage of a natural delirium, proceeding from 
a vain endeavour to protract, by forced excite- 
ment, the ecstasy of a few short moments, 
and to make that a continued state of the 
mind which was intended, by its beneficent 
Creator, only for its occasional and transient 
joy. Of this we may be well assured ; for if 
otherwise indulged, it would have rendered 
men incapable of the duties of social life ; 
those duties which the blessed founder of our 
religion did so constantly and so earnestly in- 
culcate. That I am too presumptuous in at- 



442 



PREFACE TO THE MARTYR. 



tempting to represent it at all, is a charge, 
which, if it be brought against me, I ought to 
bear with meekness ; for when it first offered 
itself to my mind as the subject of a drama, 
I shrunk from it as a thing too sacred to be 
displayed in such a form. But in often con- 
sidering the matter, this impression at last^ 
gave way to a strong desire of showing the' 
noblest of all human emotions in a light in 
which it has but seldom been contemplated ; 
and I trust that through the following pages, 
whatever defects may be found, and no doubt 
there are many, want of reverence will not be 
amongst the number. 

I would gladly pass over the lyrical part of 
the piece without remark, were it not that I 
fear 1 may have offended the classical reader, 
by having put into the mouths of Roman sol- 
diers a hymn in honour of their deities so 
homely and unpoetical. This too will more 
likely offend, after the beautiful and splendid 
effusions on this subject which have been so 
much and justly admired in a recent drama. 
But 1 wished to make them express what I 
conceived to be the actual feelings and no- 
tions of such men regarding the objects of 
their worship, not the rich descriptive imag- 
inations of a learned and poetical high priest. 
Besides, had I possessed talents requisite for 
the successful imitation of such classical afflu- 
ence, it would scarcely have accorded with the 
general tenor of the piece, and the simplicity 
of the hymns of the Christians; I should 
therefore have injured the general effect, as 
well as the supposed faithfulness of the par- 
ticular passage, regarding its description of 
real characters. It at least appears so to me 



I need scarcely observe to the reader, that 
the subject of this piece is too sacred, and 
therefore unfit for the stage. I have endeav- 
oured, however, to give it so much of dramat- 
ic effect as to rouse his imagination in perus- 
ing it, to a lively representation of the char- 
acters, action, and scenes, belonging to the 
story ; and this, if I have succeeded, tvill re- 
move from it the dryness of a mere dramatic 
poem. Had I considered it as fit for theatri- 
cal exhibition, the reasons that withhold me 
from publishing my other manuscript plays, 
would have held good regarding this. 

Before I take leave of my reader, I must be 
permitted to say, that the following Drama 
has been written for a long time, and read by 
a few of my friends several years ago. When 
Mr. Milman's beautiful drama on a similar 
subject was published, I began to be afraid 
that, were I to keep it much longer in manu- 
script, some other poet, in an age so fertile in 
poetic genius, might offer to the public that 
which might approach still nearer to the story 
of my piece, and give it, when published, not 
only all its own native defects to contend with, 
but those also arising from the unavoidable 
flatness of an exhausted subject. I therefore 
determined to publish it as soon as other da- 
ties permitted me, and many have intervened 
to prevent the accomplishment of my wish. 
In preparing it for the press, 1 have felt some 
degree of scruple in retaining its original title 
of The Martyr, but I could not well give it any 
other. The public, I hope, and Mr. Milman, 
I am certain, are sufficiently my friends not 
to find fault with this circumstance, which 
has not arisen from presumption. 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Nero, Emperor of Rome. 

CoRDENics Maro, Officer of the Imperial 

Guard. 
Orceres, a Parthian Prince, visiting Rome. 
SuLPicius, a Senator. 
Sylvius, a brave Centurion. 
Roman Pontiff. 
Cliristian Father or Bishop, Christian Brother, 

&c. 
A Page, in the family of Sulpicius. 

Senators, Christians, Soldiers, Sic. 

WOMEN. 

Portia, Daughter of Sulpicius. 
Christian Women. 
Scene, Rome. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — a private apartment in 

THE HOUSE OF SULPICIUS. 

Enter Sulpicius and Orceres by opposite sides. 

Sul. So soon returned! — I read not in thy face 
Aught to encourage or depress my wishes. 
How is it, noble friend ^ 

Ore. Ev'n as it was e'er I received my mis- 
sion. 
Cordenius Maro is on public duty ; 
I have not seen him. — When he knows your 

offer 
His lieart will bound with joy, like eaglet 

plum'd 
Whose out-stretch'd pinions wheeling round 

and round. 
Shape their first circles in the sunny air. 
Sul. And with good cause. 
Ore. Methinks I see him nov/ ! 
A face with blushes mantling to the brow. 
Eyes v;ith bright tears surcharged, and parted 

lips 
Quiv'ring to utter joy which hath no words. 
Sul. His face, indeed, as I have heard thee 
say, 
Is like a wave which sun and shadow cross ; 
Each thought makes there its momentary 
mark. 
Ore. And then his towering form, and 
vaulting step. 
As tenderness gives way to exultation ! 
O it had been a feast to look upon him : 
And still shall be. 



Sul. Art thou so well convinced — 
He loves my little damsel .•'—She is fair. 
But seems to me too simple, gay, and thought- 
less. 
For noble Maro. Heiress as she is 
To all my wealth, had I suspected sooner. 
That he had smother'd wishes in his breast 
As too presumptuous, or that she in secret 
Preferr'd his silent homage to the praise 
Of any other man, I had most frankly 
Removed all hindrance to so fair a suit. 
For, in these changeling and degenerate days, 
I scarcely know a man of nobler worth. 
Ore. Thou scarcely know'st I Say certainly 
thou dost not. 
He is, to honest right, as simply true 
As shepherd child on desert pasture bred, 
Where falsehood and deceit have never been ; 
And to maintain them, ardent, skilful, potent, 
As the shrewd leader of unruly tribes. 
A simple heart and subtle spirit join'd. 
Make such an uijion as in Nero's court 
May pass for curious and unnatural. 

Sul. But is the public duty very urgent. 
That so untowardly delays our happiness .' 
Ore. The punishment of those poor Naza- 
renes. 
Who , in defiance of imperial power, 
To their forbidden faith and rites adhere 
With obstinacy most astonishing. 

Sid. A stubborn contumacy unaccountable ! 
Ore. There's sorcery in it, or some stronger 
power. 
But be it what it may, or good or ill. 
They look on death in its most dreadful form, 
As martial heroes on a wreath of triumph. 
The fires are kindled in the place of death, 
And bells toll dismally. The life of Rome 
In one vast clust'ring mass hangs round the 

spot, 
And no one to his neighbour utters word, 
But in an alter'd voice ; with breath restrain'd , 
Like those who speak at midnight near the 

dead. 
Cordenius heads the band that guards the 

pile ; 
So station'd, who could speak to him of plea- 
sure ? 
For it would seem as an ill-onien'd thing. 
Sul. Cease ; here comes Portia, with a care- 
less face : 
She knows not yet the happiness that waits 
her. 
Ore. Who brings she with her thus, as if 
compell'd 
Sj playful force .' 

Sul. 'Tis her Numidian Page ; a cunning 
imp, 
Who must be wooed to do the thing he's proud 
of 



444 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



Enter Portia, dragging Sypu AX after her, speak- 
ing as she enters. 

Por. Come in, deceitful thing ! — I know 
thee well ; 
With all thy sly affected bashfulness, 
Thou'rt bold enough to sing in Cesar's court, 
With the whole senate present, (to Ore.) 
Prince of Parthia, 
I knew not you were here ; but yet I guess 
The song which this sly creature sings so well, 
Will please you also. 

Ore. How can it fail, fair Portia, so com- 
mended ? 

Sul. What is this boasted lay ? 

Por. Tliat tune, my father, 
Which you so oft have tried to recollect ; 
But hnked with other words, of new device. 
That please my fancy well. — Come, sing it, 
boy! 

Sul. Nay, sing it Syphax, be not so abash'd. 
If thou art really so. — Begin, begin ! 
But speak thy words distinctly as thou sing'st. 
That I may have their meaning perfectly. 

SONG. 
The storm is gath'ring far and wide, 
Yon mortal hero must abide. 
Power on earth, and power in air, 
Falchion's gleam and lightning's glare; 
Arrows hurtling thro' the blast ; 
Stones from flaming meteor cast : 
Floods from burthen'd skies are pouring. 
O'er mingled strife of battle roaring; 
Nature's rage and Demon's ire, 
Belt him round with turmoil dire : 
Noble hero ! earthly wight ! 
Brace thee bravely for the fight. 

And so, indeed, thou tak'st thy stand, 
Shield on arm and glaive in hand; 
Breast encased in burnish'd steel. 
Helm on head, and pike on heel ; 
And, more than meets the outward eye, 
The soul's high-temper'd panoply, 
Which every limb for action lightens, 
The form dilates, the visage brightens : 
Thus art thou, lofty, mortal wight ! 
Full nobly harness'd for the fight. 

Ore. The picture of some very noble hero 
These lines pourtray. 

Sul. So it should seem ; one of the days of 

old. 
Por. And why of olden days ? There liveth 
now 
The very man — a man — I mean to say, 
There may be found amongst our Roman 

youth, 
One, who in form and feelings may compare 
With him whose lofty virtues these few lines 
So well describe. 

Ore. Thou mean'st the lofty Gorbus. 
Por. Out on the noisy braggart ! Arms 
without 
He hath, indeed, well burnish'd and well 

plumed, 
But the poor soul, within, is pluck'd and bare. 
Like any homely thing. 



Ore. Sertorius Galba then ? 
Por. O, stranger still ! 
For if he hath no lack of courage, certes, 
He hath much lack of grace. Sertorius Gal- 
ba ! 
Ore. Perhaps thou mean'st Cordenius Marc, 
Lady. 
Thy cheeks grow scarlet at the very name, 
Indignant that I still should err so strangely. 
Por. No, not indignant, for thou errest not; 
Nor do I blush, albeit thouthink'st I do, 
To say, there is not of our Romans one, 
Whose martial form a truer image gives 
Of firm heroic courage. 

Sul. Cease, sweet Portia; 
He only laughs at thy simplicity. 

Ore. Simplicity seen through a harmless 
wile. 
Like to the infant urchin, half concealed 
Behind his smiling dam's transparent veil. 
The song is not a stranger to mine ear, 
Methinks I've heard it, passing thro' those 

wilds. 
Whose groves and caves, if rumour speak the 

truth. 
Are by the Nazarenes or Christians haunted. 
Sul. Let it no more be sung within my 
walls : 
A chaunt of their's to bring on pestilence ! 
Sing it no more. What sounds are those I 
hear ? 
Ore. The dismal death-drum and the crowd 
without. 
They are this instant leading past your door 
Those wretched Christians to their dreadful 
doom. 
Sul. We'll go and see them pass. 

[Exeunt hastily Sulpicius, Orceres. 
Por. (Stopping her ears.) I cannot look on 
them, nor hear the sound. 
I'll to my chamber. 

Page. May not I, I pray, 
Look on them as they pass .' 

Por. No ; go not, child : 
'Twill frighten thee ; it is a horrid sight. 
Page. Yet, an it please you. Lady, let me 

go. 
Por. I say it is a horrid, piteous sight, 
Thou wilt be frighten'd at it. 

Page. Nay, be it e'er so piteous or so horrid , 
I have a longing, strong desire to see it. 
Por. Go then ; there is in this no affecta- 
tion : 
There's all the harden'd cruelty of man 
Lodged in that tiny form, child as thou art. 
[ExEDNT, severally. 

Scene IL — an open sq,care with 
buildings. 

Enter Cordenius Maro, at the head of his Sol- 
diers, who draw up on either side : then en- 
ters a long procession of public Functionaries, 
&c. conducting Martyrs to the place of Ex- 
ecution, who, as they pass on, sing together in 
unison : one more noble than the others, walk- 
ing first. 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



445 



SONG. 

A long farewell to sin and sorrow, 
To beam of day and evening shade ! 

High in glory breaks our morrow, 
With light that cannot fade. 

While mortal flesh in flame is bleeding, 
For humble penitence and love, 

Our Brother and our Lord is pleading 
At mercy's throne above. 

We leave the hated and the hating, 
Existence sad in toil and strife ; 

The great, the good, the brave are waiting 
To hail our opening life. 

Earth's faded sounds our ears forsaking, 
A moment's silence death shall be; 

Then, to heaven's jubilee awaking, 
Faith ends in victory. 



[Exeunt Martyrs, S^c. ^c. Cordenius with his 
Officers and Soldiers still remaining ; the 
Officers on the front, and Cordenius apart 
from them in a thoughtful posture. 
First Offi. Brave Varus marches boldly at 
the head 
Of that deluded band. 

Second Offi. Are these the men, who hate- 
ful orgies hold 
In dens and deserts, courting, with enchant- 
ments, 
The intercourse of demons .-' 

Third Offi. Aye, With rites 
Cruel and wild. To crucify a babe ; 
And, while it yet hangs shrieking on the rood. 
Fall down and worship it ! device abominable ! 
First Offi. Dost thou believe it .' 
Third Offi. I can believe or this or any 
thing 
Of the possess'd and mad. 

First Offi. What demonry, thinkest thou, 

possesses Varus .'' 
Second Offi. Thatis well urged, (totheother.) 
Is he a maniac .'' 
Alas, that I should see so brave a soldier 
Thus, as a malefactor, led to death ! 

First Offi. Viewing his keen enliven'd 
countenance 
And stately step, one should have rather 

guess'd 
He led victorious soldiers to the charge: 
And they, indeed, appear to follow him 
With noble confidence. 

Third Offi. 'Tis all vain seeming. 
He is a man, who makes a show of valour 
To which his deeds have borne slight testimo- 
Cor. {advancing indignantly.) Thou liest ; 
a better and a braver soldier 
Ne'er fronted foe, or closed in bloody strife. 
{Turning away angrily to the hack ground.) 
First Offi. Our chief, methinks, is in a fret- 
ful mood, 
Which is not usual with him. 

Second Offu He did not seem to listen to 
our words. 
But see he gives the signal to proceed ; 



We must advance, and with our clo.sing ranks 
The fatal pile encircle. 

[Exeunt in order, whilst a chorv^ of Martyrs 
is heard at a distance. 

Scene III. — an apartment in a pri- 
vate HOUSE. 

Enter two Christian Women, by opposite sides. 

First Worn. Hast thou heard any thing .' 
Second Worn. Nought, save the murmur of 
the multitude. 
Sinking at times lo deep and awful silence, 
From which again a sudden burst will rise 
Like mingled exclamations, as of horror 
Or admiration. In these neighbouring streets 
I have not met a single citizen. 
The town appearing uninhabited. 
But wherefore art thou here .? Thou should'st 

have sta3'ed 
With the unhappy mother of poor Cffilus. 

First Wom. She sent me hither in her agony 
Of fear and fearful hope. 

Second Wom. Ha ! does she hope deliver- 
ance from death ? 
First Wom. O no ! thou wrong'st her, 
friend ; it is not that : 
Deliverance is her fear, and death her hope. 
A second time she bears a mother's throes 
For her young stripling, whose exalted birth 
To endless hfe is at this fearful crisis, 
Or earned or lost. May Heaven forfcnd the 

last ! 
He is a timid youth, and soft of nature : 
God grant him strength to bear that fearful 
proof! 
Second Wom. Here comes our reverend 
father. 



Enter a Christian Father. 
What tidings dost thou bring ? are they in 
bliss .■" 
Fath. Yes, daughter, as I trust, they are 
ere this 
In high immortal bliss. Ceelus alone — 
First Wom. He hath apostatized ! O woe is 
me I 
O woe is me for his most wretched mother ! 

Fath. Apostatized ! No ; stripling as he is, 
His fortitude, where all were braced and brave, 
Shone paramount. 

For his soft downy cheek and slender form 
Made them conceive they might subdue his 

firmness, 
Therefore he was reserved till noble Varus 
And his compeers had in the flames e.xpired. 
Then did they court and tempt him with fair 

promise 
Of all that earthly pleasure or ambition 
Can oifer, to deny his holy faith. 
But he, Vi'ho seem'd before so meek and timid, 
Now suddenly embued with holy grace, 
Like the transition of some watery cloud 
In passing o'er the moon's refulgent disc. 
Glowed with new life ; and from his feivid 

tongue 
Words of most firm indignant constancy 



4-16 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



Pour'd eloquently forth ; then to the pile 
Sprung lightly up, like an undaunted war- 
rior 
Scaling the breach of honour ; or, alas i 
As I have seen him midst his boyish mates 
Vaulting aloft for every love of motion. 
First Worn. High Heaven be praised for 

this ! — Thine eyes beheld it.' 
Fatk. 1 saw it not : the friend who wit- 
ness'd it. 
Left him yet living midst devouring flame ; 
Therefore I spoke of Ccelus doubtfully, 
If he as yet belong'd to earth or heaven. 
{Thcij cover their faces, and remain silent.) 

Enter a Christian Brother. 
"Broth. Lift up your heads, my sisters! let 
your voices 
In grateful thanks be rais'd ! Those ye lament. 
Have earthly pangs for heavenly joy exchang- 
ed. 
The manly Varus and the youthful Cajlus, 
The lion and the dove, yoke-fellows link'd, 
Have equal bhss and equ;il honour gain'd. 
First Worn. And praisd be God, who makes 
the weakest strong ! 
I'll to his mother with tlie blessed tidings. 

[Exit. 
Fath. Let us retire and pray. How soon 
our lives 
May have like ending, God alone doth know ! 

! may like grace support us in our need ! 

[E.KKUNT. 

Scene IV. — an open space in front 

OF A TEMPLE. 

Enter Cordj:nius, as returning from the Exe- 
cution with his Soldiers, who, upon a signal 
from iiini, disperse and leave him alone. He 
walks a few paces slowly, then stops and con- 
tinues for a short time in a thoughtful posture. 

Cor. There is some power in this, or good 
or ill. 
Surpassing nature. When the soul is roused 
To desp'rate sacrifice, 'tis ardent passion, 
Or high exalted virtue that excites it. 
Can loathsome dcmonry in dauntless bearing. 
Outdo the motives of tlie lofty brave .'' 
It cannot be ! There is some power in this 
Mocking all thought— incomprehensible. 
{Remains for a, moment silent and thonghlful, 

wj/ti/e Sylvius enters bchirulhimnnperceived.) 
Delusion! ay, 'tis said the cheated sight 
Will see unreal things ; the cheated car 
List to sweet sounds that are not ; even the 

reason 
Maintain conclusions wild and inconsistent. 
We hear of this : — the weak may be deluded ; 
But is the learn'd, th' enlighten'd, noble Va- 
rus 
The victim of delusion .'—Can it be .' 
ril not believe it. 

Sijl. {advancing to him.) No, believe it not. 

Cor. {starting) Ila ! one so near me ! 

1 have seen thy face before ; but where ? — 

who art thou ? 



.sy. Ev'n that Centurion of the Seventh 
Legion, 
Who, with Cordenius Maro, at the siege 
Of Fort Volundum,ino\n\iGA first the breach ; 
And kept the clust'ring enemy in check, 
Till our encouraged Romans followed us. 
Cor. My old companion then, the valiant 
Sylvius. 
Thou'st done hard service since I saw thee 

last: 
Thy countenance is mark'd with graver lines 
Than in those greener days : I knew thee not. 
Where goest thou now .' I'll bear thee com- 
pany. 
Syl. I thank thee : yet thou may'st not go 
with me. 
The way that I am wending suits not thee, 
Tho' suiting well the noble and the brave. 
It were not well, in fiery times like these. 
To tempt thy generous mind. 
Cor. What dost thou mean ? 
Sijl. {after looking cautiously round to see 
that nobody is near.) Did I not hear 
thee commune with thyself 
Of that most blessed Martyr gone to rest, 
Varus Dobella.' 

Cor. How blessed .' My unsettled thoughts 
were busy 
With things mysterious ; with those magic 

powers 
That work the mind to darkness and destruc- 
tion ; 
With the sad end of the deluded Varus. 
Syl. Not so, not so ! The wisest prince on 
earth. 
With treasured wealth and armies at com- 
mand, 
Ne'er earn'd withal such lofty exaltation 
As Varus now enjoys. 

Cor. Thy words amaze me, friend ; what 

is their meaning .' 
Syl. They cannot be explain'd with hasty 
speech 
In such a place. If thou would'st really 
know — 

And may such light 

Cor. Why dost thou cheek thy words. 
And look so much disturb'd. like one in doubt .'' 
Syl. What am I doing ! Zcvd, perhaps, be- 
trays me. 
Yet, wherefore hide salvation from a man 
Who is so worthy of it ? 

Cor. Why art thou agitated thus ? What 

moves thee ? 
Syl. And would'st thou really know it ? 
Cor. Dost thou doubt me ? 
I have an earnest, most intense desire. 

Syl. Sent to thy heart, brave Roman, by a 
Power 
Which I may not resist. {Boioing his head.) 
But go not with me now in open day. 
At fall of eve, I'll meet thee in the suburb, 
Close to the pleasure-garden of Sulpitius ; 
Where in a bushy crevice of the rock 
There is an entry to the catacombs, 
Known but to few. 

Cor. Ha I to the catacombs ! 



THE MARTYR t A DRAMA. 



447 



Syl. A dismal place, I own, but heed not 
that ; 
For there thou'lt learn what, to thy ardent 

mind, 
Will make this world but as a thorny pass 
To regions of delight ; man's natural life 
With all its varied turmoil of ambition, 
But as the training of a wayward child 
To manly excellence ; yea, death itself 
But as a painful birth to life unending. 
The word eternal has not to thine ears. 
As yet, its awful, ample sense conveyed. 
Cor. Something possesses thee. 
Syl. Yes, noble Maro ; 
But it is something which can ne'er possess 
A mind that is not virtuous. — Let us part ; 
It is expedient now. — All good be with tliee I 
Co?-. And good be with thee, also, valiant 

soldier I 
Syl. {returning ns he is about to go out.) At 
close of day, and near the pleasure- 
garden, — 
The garden of Sulpitius. 

Cor. 1 know the spot, and will not fail to 
meet thee. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 
Scene I. — the catacombs, showing 

LONG LOW-ROOFED AISLES, IN DIFFER- 
ENT DIRECTIONS, SCPPORTED BYTHICE 
PILLARS OF THE ROUGH UNHEWN 
ROCK, WITH RUDE TOMBS AND HEAPS 
OF HUMAN BONES, AND THE WALLS 
IN MANY PLACES LINED W^ITH HUMAN 
SKULLS. 

Enter Cordenius Maro, speaking to a Chris- 
tian Father, on whose arm he leans, and 
followed by Sylvius. 

Cor. One day and two bless'd nights, spent 
in acquiring 
Your heavenly lore, so powerful and sub- 
lime, — 
Oh .' what an altered creature they have made 
me ! 
Fath. Yes, gentle son, I trust that thou art 

altered. 
Cor. I am, methinks, like one, who, with 
bent back 
And downward gaze — if such a one might 

be — 
Hath only known the boundless azure sky 
By the strait circle of reflected beauty. 
Seen in the watery gleam of some deep pit. 
Till of a sudden roused, he stands erect, 
And wondering looks aloft and all around 
On the bright sunny firmament : — like one 
(Granting again that such a one might be,^ 
Who hath but seen the element of fire 
On household hearth or woodman's smoky 

pile. 
And looks at once, midst stounding thunder- 
peals, 



On Jove's magnificence of lightning. —Pardon, 
I pray you pardon me ! I mean Ids lightning, 
Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehova. 
Falli. (smiling.) Be not disturb'd, my son; 
the lips will utter. 
From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects. 
Cor. These blessed hours which I have 
pass'd with you 
Have to my intellectual being given 
New feelings and expansion, like to that 
Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees 
Tiie wide developement of nature's amplitude. 
Fatk. And how v/as that, my son? 
Cor. I well remember it ; even at this mo- 
ment 
Imagination sees it all again. 
'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia, 
O'er which I led by night my martial cohort, 
To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day. 
Close round us hung, the vapours of the night 
Had formed woofy curtain, dim and pale. 
Through which the waning moon did faintly 

mark 
Its slender crescent. 

Fath. Ay, the waned moon thro' midnight 
vapours seen, 
Fit emblem is of that retrenching light, 
Dubious and dim, which to the earliest Patri- 

arclis 
Was at the first vouchsafed ; a moral guide, 
Soon clouded and obscured to their descend- 
ants, 
Who peopled far and wide, in scattered tribes, 
The fertile earth. — But this is interruption. 
Proceed, my son. 

Cor. Well, on the lofty sunnnit 
We halted, and the day's returning light 
On this exalted station found us. Then 
Our brighten'd curtain, wearing into shreds 
And rifted masses, through its opening gave 
Glimpse after glimpse of slow revealed beau- 
ty, 
Which held th' arrested senses magic bound. 
In the intensity of charm'd attention. 

Fath. From such an eminence, the op'ning 
mist 
Would to the eye reveal most beauteous vis- 
ions. 
Cor. First, far beneath us, woody peaks 
appear 'd. 
And knolls with cedars crested; then, beyond, 
And lower still, the herdsmen's cluster'd 

dwellings. 
With pasture slopes, and flocks just visible ; 
Then, furtlicr still, soft wavy wastes of forest, 
In all the varied tints of sylvan verdure, 
Descending to the plain ; then wide and 

boundless 
The plain itself, with towns and cultured tracks. 
And its fair river gleaming in the light. 
With all its sweepy v.-indings, seen and lost. 
And seen again, till thro' the pale grey tint 
Of distant space, it seem'd a loosen'd cestus 
From virgin's tunic blown ; and still beyond. 
The earth's extended vastness from the sight. 
Wore like the boundless ocean. 
My heart beat rapidly at tlie fair siglit— 



448 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



This ample earth, man's natural habitation. 
But now, when to my mental eye reveal'd, 
His moral destiny, so grand and noble, 
Lies stretching on even to immensity, 
It overwhelms me with a flood of thoughts, 
Of happy thoughts. 

Fatk. Thanks be to God that thou dost feel 

it so ! 
Cor. I am most thankiul for the words of 
power 
Which from thy gifted lips and sacred Scrip- 
ture 
I have received. What feelings they have 

raised ! 
O what a range of thouglit given to the mind ! 
And to the soul what loftiness of hope ! 
That future dreamy state of faint existence 
Which poets have described and sages taught. 
In which the brave and virtuous pined and 

droop'd 
In nseless indolence, changed for a state 
Of social love, and joy, and active bliss, — 
A state of brotherhood, — a state of virtue, 
So grand, so purified : — O, it is excellent ! 
My soul is roused within me at the sound, 
Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon 

issues 
To range with free-born men his native land. 
Fath. Thou may'st, indeed, my son, re- 
deem'd from thraldom. 
Become the high compeer of blessed spirits. 
Cor. The high compeer of such I — These 
gushing tears. 
Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way. 
Fath. To give thy heart relief. 
Cor. And yet mysterious. Why do we 
weep 
At contemplation of exalted virtue .'' 
Perhaps in token of the fallen state 
In which we are, as thrilling sympathy 
Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound, 
Connected with a dear and distant home. 
Albeit the mem'ry hath that link forgotten : — 
A kind of latent sense of what we were 
Or might have been ; a deep mysterious token. 
Fatli. Perhaps thou'rt right, my son ; for 
even the wicked 
Will sometimes weep at lofty, generous deeds. 
Some broken traces of our noble nature 
Were yet preserved ; therefore our great Cre- 
ator 
Still loved his work, and thought it worth re- 
demption. 
And therefore his bless'd Son, our generous 

Master, 
Did, as the elder brother of that race. 
Whose form he took, lay down his life to save 

us. 
But I have read thee, in our sacred Book, 
His gentle words of love. 

Cor. Thou hast! thou hast I they're stirring 
in my heart : 
Each fibre of my body thrills in answer 
To the high call.— 

F'atii. The Spirit of Power, my son, is deal- 
ing with thee. 



Cor. (after a pause.) One tiling amazes me, 

yet it is excellent. 
Fath. And what amazes thee ? Unbosom 
freely 
What passes in thy mind. 

Cor. That this religion which dilates our 
thoughts 
Of God Supreme to an infinity 
Of awful greatness, yet connects us with him, 
As children, loved and cherish'd ; — 
Adoring awe with tenderness united. 

iSy. {eagerly.) Ay, brave Cordenius, that 
same thought more moved 
My rude unletter'd mind than all the rest. 
I struck my hand against my soldier's mail. 
And cried, " This faith is worthy of a man !" 
Cor. Our best philosophers have raised 
their thoughts 
To one great universal Lord of all, 
Lord even of Jove himself and all the gods; 
But who durst feel for that high, distant Es- 
sence 
A warmer sentiment than deep submission .' 
But now, adoring love and grateful confidence 
Cling to th' infinity of power and goodness, 
As the repentant child turns to his sire 
With yearning looks that say, '• Am I not 

thine .'' " 
I am too bold : I should be humbled first 
In penitence and sorrow, for the stains 
Of many a hateful vice and secret passion. 
Fath. Check not the generous tenour of thy 
thoughts : 
O check it not ! Love leads to penitence. 
And is the noblest, surest patli ; whilst fear 
Is dark and devious. To thy home return. 
And let thy mind well weigh what thou hast 

heard. 
If then thou feel'st within thee, faith assured ; 
That faith, which may, even through devour- 
ing flames. 
Its passage hold to lieaven, baptismal rites 
Shall give thee entrance to a purer life, 
Receive thee, as thy Saviour's valiant soldier, 
For his high warfare arin'd. 

Cor. I am resolved, and feel that in my 
heart 
There lives that faith; baptize me ere we 
part. 
Fath. So be it then. But yet that holy rite 
Must be deferr'd ; for lo ! our brethren come, 
Bearing the ashes of our honour'd saints. 
Which must, with hymns of honour be re- 
ceived. 

Enter Christians, seen advancing slowly along 
one of the aisles, and bearing a large veiled 
urn, which they set down near the front. 
They then lift off the veil and range them- 
selves round it, while one sings and the rest 
join in the chorus at the end of each short 
verse. 

SONG. 

Departed brothers, generous, brave, 

Who for the faith have died, 

Nor its pure source denied, 
Your bodies from devouring flames to save, 



THE MARTYR; A DRAMA. 



449 



Chorus. 

Honour on earth, and bliss in heaven, 
Be to your saintly valour given ! 

And we, who, left behind, pursue 

A pilgrim's weary way 

To realms of glorious day, 
Shall rouse our fainting souls with thoughts of 
you. 

Honour on earth, &c. 

Your ashes, mingled with the dust, 

Shall yet be forms more fair 

Than e'er breathed vital air. 
When earth again gives up her precious trust. 

Honour on earth, &c. 

The trump of angels shall proclaim, 

With tones far sent and sweet, 

Which countless hosts repeat. 
The generous martyr's never-fading name. 

Honour on earth, and bliss in heaven, 
Be to your saintly valour given ! 

Car. (to Fatlier.) And ye believe those, who 

a few hours since 
Were clothed in flesh and blood, and here, 

before us, 
Lie thus, ev'n to a few dry ashes changed. 
Are now exalted spirits, holding life 
With blessed powers, and agencies, and all 
Who have on earth a virtuous part fulfill'd .' 
The dear redeem'd of Godlike love, again 
To their primeval destiny restored .'' 
It is a geperous, powerful, noble faith. 

Syl. Did I not tell thee, as we pass'd along, 
It well became a Roman and a soldier .'' 
Fath. Nay, worthy Sylvius, somewhat 

more of meekness 
And less of martial ardour were becoming 
In those, whose humble Lord stretch'd forth 

his hand. 
His saving hand, to ev'n the meanest slave 
Who bends beneath an early master's rod. 
This faith is meet for all of human kind. 
Cor. Forgive him, father: see, he stands 

reproved; 
His heart is meek, tho' ardent; 
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind. 

Fatk. We feel it such, my son, press'd as 

we are ; 
On every side beset with threatening terrours. 
Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless 

pillars, 
These heaps of human bones, — this court of 

death ; 
Ev'n here, as in a temple, we adore 
The Lord of life, and sing our song of hope. 
That death has lost his sting, the grave his 

triumph. 
Cor. O make me then the partner of your 

hopes ! 
(Taking the hand q/" Sylvius, and then of sev- 
eral other Christians.) 
Brave men ! high destined souls ! immortal 



56 



The blessed faith and sense of what we are 
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy 

light 
Pour'd from some opening cloud. O to con- 
ceive 
What lies beyond the dim, dividing veil. 
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being I 
Fath. Ay, when it is withdrawn, we shall 
behold 
What heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue 
could utter. 
Cor. When but a boy, I've gazed upon the 
sky. 
With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope 
For the benighted world. But now my fancy 
Will greet each twinkling star, as the bright 

lamp 
Of some fair angel on his guardian watch. 
And think y.e not, that from their lofty sta- 
tions. 
Our future glorious home, our Father's house. 
May lie within the vast and boundless ken 
Of such seraphic powers .'' 
Fath. Th}' fancy soars on wide and buoy- 
ant wings ; 
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ar- 
dour. 
Cor. This solid earth is press'd beneath our 
feet. 
But as a step from which to take our flight , 
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be. 
Serving its end ? — Come, noble Sylvius 1 
We've been companions in the broil of battle, 
Now be we fellow -soldiers in that warfare 
Which best becomes the brave. 

Syl. Cordenius Maro, we shall be compan- 
ions 
When this wide earth with all its fields of 

blood. 
Where war hath raged, and all its towers of 

strength 
Which have begirded been with iron hosts, 
Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun 
Is in his course extinguish'd. 

Cor. Come, lead me, father, to the holy 
fount. 
If I in humble penitence may be 
From worldly vileness clear'd, 

Fath. I gladly will, my son. The spirit of 
grace 
Is dealing with thy spirit : be received, 
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship 
Of all the good and bless'd in earth and 
heaven I 

Enter a Convert. 

Whence comest thou, Fearon .' Why wert 

thou prevented 
From joining in our last respectful homage 
To those, who have so nobly for the truth 
Laid down their lives .'' 

Con. 1 have been watching near the grated 
dungeon 
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured. 
Fath. Thou say'st not so! A heavier loss 
than this. 



450 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA, 



If they have seiz'd on liim, the righteous cause 
Could not have suffer'd. Art thou sure of it ? 
W(^ had not heard of his return from Syria. 
Con. It is too true : he landed ten days 
since 
On the Brundusian coast, and as he enter'd 
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd 
to prison. 
Fath. And we in utter ignorance of this ! 
Con. He travell'd late and unaccompanied, 
So this was done at night-fall and conceal'd. 
But see his writing, given me by a guard, 
Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust: 
It is address'd to thee. 

{Giving him ajjaper.) 
Fath. {after reading it.) Alas, alas : it is a 
brief account 
Of his successful labours in the East ; 
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence, 
Learning, and prudence, he has made more 

converts 
Than all our zealous brotherhood besides. 
What can we do ? He will be sacrificed : 
The church in him must bleed, if God so 

wills. 
It is a dreadful blow. 

Cor. {to the Convert.) I pray thee, in what 

prison is he kept. 
Con. In Sylla's tower, that dwelling of des- 
pair. 
C-or. Guarded by Romfyis .■' 
Con. Yes ; and strongly guarded. 
Cor. Yet, he shall be released. 
Fath. {to Cordenius.) Beware, my son, of 
rash, imprudent zeal : 
The truth hath suffer'd much from this ; be- 
ware ; 
Risk not thyself: thy life is also precious. 
Cor. My whole of life is precious ; but this 
shred, 
This earthly portion of it, what is that. 
But as it is employed in holy acts ? 
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate 
Than I have served an earthly master .' No ; 
I feel within my glowing breast a power 
Which says I am commission 'd for this ser- 
vice. 
Give me thy blessing — thy baptismal blessing, 
And then God's spirit guide me 1 Serving 

God, 
I will not count the cost but to discharge it. 
Fath. His will direct thee then, my gen- 
erous son ! 
His blessing be upon thee ! — Lead him, Syl- 
vius, 
To the blest fount, where from his former sins 
He shall by heavenly grace be purified. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — the garden of sulpi- 
cius. 

Enter Sut.picius, and Poktia, with flowers in 
her hand. 

Por. Was it not well to rise with early 
morn 



And pay my homage to sweet Flora ? Never 
Were flowers by mid-day cuU'd so fair, so 

fragrant, 
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and 

bright. 
See ; twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell. 
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart. 
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen. 
Whilst curling tendrils grasp with vigorous 

hold 
The stem that bears them ! All looks young 

and fresh. 
The very spider thro' his circled cage 
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended. 
Scarce seems a lothly thing, but like the 

small 
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph. 
Is it not so, my father .' 

Sul. Yes, morn and youth and freshness 

sweetly join. 
And are the emblems of dear changeful days. 
By night those beauteous things — 

Por. x\nd what of night .' 
Why do you check your words .■" You are 

not sad .'' 
Sul. No, Portia; only angry with myself 
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful 

thoughts 
With those of sullen age. Away with them ! 
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft 

and silken, 
Are gathered into dank and wrinkled folds 
When evening chills them, or upon the earth 
With broken stems and buds torn and dis- 

pers'd, 
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft 
When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it 

so ! 
All things but have their term. 
In truth, my child, I am glad that I indulged 

thee 
By coming forth at such an early hour 
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess. 
Upon her yearly feast. 
Por. I thank you, father ! On her feast, 'tis 

said, 
That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouch- 
safes 
Her presence in such sweet and flowery 

spots : 
And where due offerings on her shrine are 

laid. 
Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of 

promise. 
Sul. How many places in one little day 
She needs must visit then ! 
Por. But she moves swift as thought. The 

hasty zephyr, 
That stirr'd each slender leaf, now as we en- 
ter'd. 
And made a sudden sound, by stillness fol- 

low'd, 
Might be the rustling of her passing robe. 
Sul. A pleasing fancy, Portia, for the mo- 
ment, 
Yet wild as pleasing. 
Por. Wherefore call it wild ? 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



451 



Full many a time I've listen'd when alone 
In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard 
Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones 
Of question and reply, pass on the wind, 
And heard soft steps upon the ground ; and 

then 
The notion of bright Venus or Diana, 
Or goddess-nymphs, would come so vividly 
Into my mind, that 1 am almost certain 
Their radiant forms were near me, tho' con- 
ceal 'jd 
By subtle drapery of the ambient air. 
And oh, how 1 have long'd to look upon them 
An ardent strange desire, tho' mix'd with fear. 
Nay, do not smile, my father : such fair sights 
Were seen — were often seen in ancient days ; 
The poets tell us so. 

But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd 

Are in full bloom ; and 1 must gather them ! 

[Exit eagerly. 

Sul. {alone.) Go, gentle creature, thou art 

careless yet : 

Ah ! could'st thou so remain, and still with 

me 
Be as in years gone by ! — It may not be ; 
Nor should I wish it : all things have tlieir 

season : 
She may not now remain an old man's treas- 
ure, 
With all her woman's beauty grown to blos- 
som. 

Enter Orceres. 

The Parthian prince at such an early hour .-' 
Ore. And who considers hours, whose heart 
is bent 
On what concerns a lover and a friend .' 
Where is thy daughter.' 

Sid. Within yon flowery thicket, blythe 
and careless ; 
For tho' she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden 

fancy, 
Which, not impatient, looks in cheering hope 
To future years. 

Ore. Ay, 'tis a sheltered passion, 
A cradled love, by admiration foster'd : 
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful. 
Thus in the shell athwart whose snowy lining 
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow 

plays, 
A little pearl is found, in secret value 
Surpassing all the rest. 

Sul. But saycst thou nothing 
Of what I wish to hear ? What of Cordenius .' 
Ore. By my good war-bow and its barbed 
shafts I 
By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode ! 
I'm still in ignorance ; I have not seen him. 
Sul. Thou hast not seen him ! this is very 

strange. 
Ore. So it indeed appears. — My wayward 
friend 
Has from his home been absent. Yesterday, 
There and elsewhere I sought, but found liim 

not. 
This morning by the dawn again I sought 
him, 



Thinking to find him surely, and alone ; 
But his domestics, much amazed, have told 

me. 
He is not yet return'd. 

Sul. Hush ! thro' yon thicket I perceive a 

man. 
Ore. Some thief or spy. 
Sul. Let us withdraw awhile. 
And mark his motions ; he observes us not. 

Enter Cordenius from a thicket in the back 
ground. 

Cor. (after looking round him with delight.) 
Sweet light of day, fair sky, and verdant 

earth, 
Enricli'd witli every beauteous herb and 

flower. 
And stately trees, that spread their boughs 

like tents 
For shade and shelter, how I hail ye now ! 
Ye are his works, who made such fair abodes 
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck 
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off". 

{Stooping to look at tlie flowers.) 
Ye little painted things, whose varied hues 
Charm, ev'n to wonderment; that mighty 

hand 
Which dyes the mountain's peak with rosy 

tints 
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barbed 
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam, 
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you ! 
There is a Father's full unstinted love 
Display 'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze 
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy. 
What voice is that so near me and so sweet .' 

(Portia xcithout, singing some notes of ■prelude, 
atul then a Soiig.) 

SONG. 

The Lady in her early bower 
Is blest as bee in morning flower ; 
The Lady's eye is flashini,' bright, 
Like water in the morning light ; 
The Lady's song is sweet and loud, 
Like skylark o'er tlie morning cloud ; 
The Lady's smiles are smiles that pass 
Like morning's breath o'er wavy grass. 

She thinks of one, whose harness'd car 
In triumph comes from distant war ; 
She thmks of one, whose martial state 
Will darken Rome's imperial gate ; 
She thinks of one, with laurel crown'd, 
Who shall with sweeter wreaths be bound. 
Voice, eye, and smiles, in mingled play. 
The Lady's happy thoughts betray. 

Cor. Her voice indeed, and this ray fav'rite 

song ! 
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia. 
I call her mine, because siie is the image 
Which hath possess'd my fancj^ Such vain 

thoughts 
Must now give place. I will not linger here. 
This is the garden of Sulpicius ; 
How have 1 miss'd my path .' She sings 

again. {Sings 'eoithout,as before.) 



452 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA: 



She wanders fitfully from lay to lay, 

But all of them some air that 1 have prais'd 

In happy hours gone by. 

SONG. 

The kind heart speaks with words so kindly 

sweet, 
That kindred hearts the catching tones repeat ; 
And love, therewith his soft sigh gently blending. 
Makes pleasing harmony. Thus softly sending 
Its passing cheer across the stilly main. 
Whilst in the sounding water dips the oar 
And glad response bursts from the nearing shore, 
Comes to our ears the home-bound seaman's 

strain. 
Who from the lofty deck, hail their own land 

again. 

Cor. O gentle, sweet, and cheerful ! form'd 
to be 
Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured 

love ! 
Dear as thou art, I will not linger here. 
Re-enter Sulpicius and Orceres, breaking 
out upon him, and Orceres catching hold of 
his robe as he is going off. 

Ore. Ha ! noble Maro, to a coward turn'd, 
Shunning a spot of danger ! 

Sul. Stay, Cordenius. 
The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here. 
Is her thou call'st so gentle. As for me, 
I do not offer thee this hand more freely 
Than I will grant all that may make thee 

happy. 
If Portia has that power. 

Cor. And dost tiiou mean, in very earnest 
mean. 
That thou wilt give me Portia — thy dear Por- 
tia.? 
My fancy catches wildly at thy words. 

Sul. And truly too, Cordenius. She is 
thine, 
If thou wilt promise me to love her truly. 
Cor. (Eagerly clasping the knees, and 
then hissing the hands of Sulpicius.) 
Thanks, thanks ! — thanks from my 
swoln, o'erflowing heart, 
Which has no words. — Friend, father, Portia's 

father ! 
The thought creates in me such sudden joy 
I am bewilder'd with it. 

Sul. Calm thy spirits. — 
Thou should'st in meeter form have known 

it sooner, 
Had not the execution of those Christians — 
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile, 
With all their kind,l would most gladly pun- 
ish,) 
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orce- 
res — 
Thou owest him thanks — plead for thee pow- 
erfully, 
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to 

me .' 
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops 
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy conlracted 

lips 
Quiver, like one in pain. 



Ore. What sudden illness racks thee .' 
Cor. I may not tell you now : let me de- 
part. 
Sul. {holding him.) Thou art my promised 
son ; I have a right 
To know whate'er concerns thee, — pain or 
pleasure. 
Cor. And so thou hast, and I may not de- 
ceive thee. 
Take, take, Sulpicius. — O such with'ring 

words ! 
The sinking, sick'ning heart and parched 

mouth ! 
I cannot utter them. 

Sul. Why in this agony of perturbation ? 
Nay, strive not now to speak. 

Cor. I must, I must ! — 
Take back thy proffer'd gifl ; all earth could 

give ;— 
That which it cannot give 1 must retain. 
Sul. What words are these ? If it were 
possible, 
I could believe thee touch 'd with sorcery, 
The cursed art of those vile Nazarenes. 
Where hast thou past the night ? their haunts 
are near. 
Ore. Nay, nay ; repress thine anger ; noble 
Maro 
May not be questioned thus. 

Sul, He may, and shall. And yet I will 
not urge him. 
If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will 

say. 
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes. 
Cor. No; tho' my life, and what is dearer 
far. 
My Portia's love, depended on the words, 
I would not, and I durst not utter them. 
Sul. I see it well : thou art ensnared and 
blinded 
By their enchantments. Demoniac power 
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off; 
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse 
With this detested sect. Art thou a mad- 
man .'' 
Cor. If I am mad, that which possesses me 
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught. 
Or poets e'er imagined. — Listen to me. 
Call ye these Christians vile, because they 

suffer 
All nature shrinks from, rather than deny 
What seems to them the truth ? Call ye them 

sorcerers, 
Because their words impart such high con- 
ceptions 
Of power creative and parental love, 
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart 
Bound with ennobling thoughts.-' Call ye 

them curst 
Who daily live in steady strong assurance 
Of endless blessedness .' O, listen to me ! 

Re-enter Portia, burstmg from a thicket close 
to them. 

Por. O, listen to him, father ! 
Sul. Let go my robe, fond creature ! Lis- 
ten to him .' 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



433 



The song of syrens were less fatal. Charms 

Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin, 

Are mingled with the words that speak their 

faith ; 
They, who once hear them, flutter round de- 
struction 
With giddy fascination, like the moth, 
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and 

shrivell'd. 
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen ; 
No, Portia, nor shalt thou. 

For. O, say not so ! 
For if you listen to him, you may save him, 
And win him from his errors. 

Sul. Vain hope ! vain hope ! What is man's 
natural reason 
Opposed to demon subtlety ? Cordenius ! 
Cordenius Maro ! I adjure thee, go ! 
Leave me ; why would'st thou pull destruc- 
tion on me ^ 
On one who loved thee so, that tho' possess'd 
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly prized. 
Priced more than life, yet would have given 

it to thee. 
I needs must weep : ev'n for thyself I weep. 
Cor. Weep not, my kind Sulpicius ! 1 will 
leave thee, 
Albeit the pearl thou would'st bestow upon me 
Is, in my estimation, dearer far 
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing. 
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, 

perhaps. 
Think of me with regard, but not with pity, 
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been, 
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear 

Portia, 
Wilt thou remember me .'' That thought, alas ! 
Dissolves my soul iu weakness. — 
O, to be spared, if it were possible, 
This stroke of agony. Is it not possible. 

That I might yet Almighty God forgive 

me ! 
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart, 
But not be cherish'd there. I may not oiFer 

Aught short of all to thee. 

Farewell, farewell ! sweet Ponia, fare thee 

well! 
(Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his 

going.) 
Retain me not : I am a Parthian now. 
My strength is in retreat. [Exit. 

Par. That noble mind I and must it then 
be ruin'd .' 
O save him, save him, father ! Brave Orceres, 
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble 
Maro .' 
Ore. We will, sweet maid, if it be possible. 
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts ; 
And he may yet, if not by circumstances 
Provok'd to speak, conceal it from the world. 
For. And you, my father .' 
Sul. I will not betray him. 
For. Then all may yet be well ; for our 
great gods. 
Whom Csesar and his subject-nations worship. 
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier 



To power demoniac. That can never be, 
If they indeed regard us. 

Ore. Were he in Parthia, our great god, 
the sun. 
Or rather he who in that star resides. 
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted, 
For all the demonry that e'er exerted 
Its baleful influence on wretched men. 
Beshrew rhe ! for a thought gleams thro' my 

brain. 
It is this God, perhaps, with some new name, 
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore. 
Sul. With impious rites, most strange and 

horrible. 
Ore. If he, my friend, in impious rites hath 
join'd, 
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man 
A power to change its nature. Ay , Sulpicius ; 
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass, 
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance; 
We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry, 
' It is to wound a foe.' Come, gentle Por- 
tia; 
Be not so sad ; the man thou lovest is virtu- 
ous, 
And brave, and loves thee well ; why then 
despair J 
For. Alas ! 1 know he is brave and virtu- 
ous. 
Therefore, I do despair. 

Ore. In Nero's court, indeed, 
Such men are ever on the brink of danger, 
But would'st thou have him other than he is .' 
For. O no ! I would not ; that were base 
and sordid ; 
Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child 
Who weeps for that which cannot be at- 

tain'd, — 
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd. 
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched. 
And thai doth make me foolish and perverse. 

[EXEUKT. 



ACT III. 

Scene !.■ — before the gate of nero's 
palace : guards with their offi- 
cers, discovered on duty. 

Enter to them another Officer , speaking as he 
enters to the Soldiers. 

First Offi. Strike up some sacred strain of 
Roman triumph ; 
The Pontiff comes to meet the summon'd 

council. 
Omit not this respect, else he will deem 
We are of those who love the Nazarenes. 
Sing loud and clearly. 

Enter Pontiff attended. 

SACRED HYMN by the Soldiers. 

That chief, who bends to Jove tlie suppliant 

knee, 
Shall firm in power and high in honour be ; 



454 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



And who to Mars a soldier's homage yields , 
Shall laurell'd glory reap in bloody fields ; 
Wiio vine-crovvn'd Bacchus, bounteous Lord 

adores. 
Shall gather still, unscath'd, his vintage stores; 
Who to fair Venus lib'ral off'ring gives, 
Enrich'd with love, and sweet affection lives. 
Tlicn, be your praises still our sacred theme, 
O Venus, Bacchus, Mars, and Jove supreme ! 

Pan. I thank ye, soldiers ! Rome, indeed, 
hath triumph'd, 
Bless'd in the high protection of her gods, 
The sov'reign warrior-nation oC the world ; 
And, favoui'd by great Jove and raio-htv 
Mars, ^ 

So may she triumph still, nor meanly stooo 
To worship strange and meaner deities, 
Adverse to warlike glory. 

[Exit, loitk his train. 
First Offi. The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his 

brow is lowering. 
Second Offi- Reproof and caution, mino-led 
with his thanks, 
Tho' utter'd graciously. 

First Offi, He is offended. 
Because of late so many valiant soldiers 
Have proselytes become to this new worship ; 
A worship too, as he insinuates, 
Unsuited to the brave. 

Third Offi. Ay, ay ! the sacred chickens 

are in danger. 
Second Offi: Sylvius is suspected, as I hear. 
First Offi. Hush ! let us to our duty ; it is 
time 
To change the inner guard. 
[Exeunt with music, into the gate of the palace. 

Scene II. — a council chamber in the 

PALACE, NERO WITH HIS COUNSELLORS 
DISCOVERED ; NERO IN THE ACT OF 
SPEAKING. 

JVero. Yes, Servius ; formerly we have ad- 
mitted. 
As minor powers, amongst the ancient gods 
Of high imperial Rome, the foreign deities 
Of friendly nations ; but these Nazarenes 
Scorn such association, proudly claiming 
For that whicli is the object of their faith, 
Sole, undivided homage : and our altars. 
Our stately temples, flie majestic forms 
Of Mars, Apollo, thund'ring Jove himself. 
By sculptor's art divine, so nobly wrought. 
Are held by these mad zealots in contempt. 
Examine, sayest thou ! shall imperial Caesar 
Deign to examine what withstands his power .-' 
I marvel at thy folly, Servius Sillus. 

Enter an Officer. 

Offi. The Pontiff, mighty Caesar, waits 
without, 
And craves admittance. 

JYero. Let him be admitted. 

Enter Pontiff. 

Pontiff, th}'^ visage, if 1 read it well, 



Says, that some weighty matter brings thee 

here : 
Thou hast our leave to speak. 

Pan. Imperial Nero, did'st thou not con- 
demn 
That eloquent, but pestilential Nazarene, 
The Grecian Ethocles, whose specious words 
Wrap in delusion all who listen to him, 
Spreading his baleful errors o'er the world .'' 
JVero. Did I condemn him ! Ev'n this 
very day. 
He in the Amphitheatre meets his doom ; 
Having, I trust, no power of words to charm 
The enchafed lion, or the famish'd wolf. 

Po?i. I am infbrm'd, and I believe it true, 
That this bold malefactor is enlarged. 

JVero. It is impossible ! Cordenius Maro 
Is sworn to guard the prisoner ; or, failing, 
(How could lie fail .') to pay with his own 

life 
The forfeit. But behold his fav'rite friend, 

Enter Orceres , followed by Sulpicius. 
The Parthian Prince, who will inform us 

truly. 
Orceres, is thy friend Cordenius coming ? 
I have commanded him, and at this hour, 
To bring his guarded prisoner to the palace, 
Here to remain till the appointed time. 

Ore. I know not ; nor have I beheld Cor- 
denius 
Since yesterday ; when, at an early hour, 
Sulpicius and myself met him by chance : 
But for the prisoner, lie is at hand, 
Ev'n at the palace gate ; for as we enter'd 
We saw him there, well circled round Avitli 

guards, 
Tho' in the martial throng we saw not Maro. 

JVero. (To the Pontiff.) Said I not so ? 
(To an Officer.) Command them instantly 
To bring this wordy Grecian to our presence. 
[Exit Officer. 
Sulpicius, thou hast known this Ethocles, 
Is he a madman or ambitious knave. 
Who sought on human folly to erect 
A kind of fancied greatness for himself.' 
Sid. I know not which, great Nero. 
JVero. And did'st thou not advise me earn- 
estly 
To rid the state of such a pestilence .-' 

Sul. And still advise thee, Nero ; for this 
Greek 
Is dang'rous above all, who, with their lives, 
Have yet paid forfeit for their strange belief. 
They come : the ])risoner in foreign garb 
So closely wrapp'd, I scarcely see his face. 

Enter Prisoner, attended. 
Pon. If it in truth be he. 
J\'cro. (To the Pontiff.) Dost thou still 
doubt ? 
(To the Prisoner). Stand forth, audacious re- 
bel to my will ! 
Dost thou still brave it, false and subtile spirit ? 
Cor. (throwing off his Grecian cloak, and ad- 
vancing to Nero.) I am not false, 
Augustus, but if subtle, 



THE MARTYR. A DRAMA. 



455 



Add to my punisliment what shall be deem'd 
Meet retribution. I have truly sworn, 
Or to produce thy thrall, or, therein failing, 
To give my life for his ; and here I stand. 
Ethocles, by a higher power than thine. 
Is yet reserved for great and blessed ends. 
Take thou the forfeit ; I have kept my oath. 
Nero. 1 am amazed beyond the power of 

utt'rance ! 
Grows it to such a pitch that Rome's brave 

captains 
Are by this wizard sorcery so charm'd .•' 
Then it is time, good sooth ! that sweeping 

vengeance 
Should rid the earth of every tainted thing 
Which that curst sect hath touch'd. Corde- 

nius Maro, 
Thou who hast fought our battles, graced our 

slate. 
And borne a noble Roman's honour'd name. 
What, O what power could tempt thee to tliis 

shame ^ 
Cor. I have been tempted by that mighty 

Power, 
Who gave to Rome her greatness, to the earth 
Form and existence ; yea, and to the soul 
Of living, active man, sense and perception : 
But not to shame, O Caesar ! not to shame ! 
Kero. What, hast thou not become a Naza- 

rene, 
As now 1 apprehended .'' Say, thou hast not ; 
And tho' thy present act is most audacious, 
Yet will I spare thy life. 

Cor. If thou would'st spare my life, and to 

that grace 
Add all the wealth of Rome, and all the 

power 
Of Rome's great Lord, I would not for the 

bribe 
Be other than 1 am, or what I am 
Basely deny. 

Nero. Thou art a Christian, then .' Thou 

art a maniac 1 
Cor. I am a man, who, seeing in the flames 
Those dauntless Christians suffer, long'd to 

know 
What power could make them brave the fear 

of death, 
Disgrace, and infamy. — And I have learnt 
That they adore a God, — one God, supreme, 
Who, over all men, his created sons. 
Rules as a father ; and beholding sin. 
Growth of corruption, mar this earthly race, 
Sent down to earth his sinless heavenly Son, 
Who left, with generous devoted love, 
His state of exaltation and of glory, 
To win them back to virtue, yea, to virtue 
Which shall be crown'd with never-ending 

bliss. 
I've learnt that they with deep adoring gra- 
titude 
Pay homage to that Son, the sent of God, 
Who here became a willing sacrifice 
To save mankind from sin and punishment, 
And earn for them a better life hereafter. 
When mortal life is closed. The heart's deep 

homage 



Becoming well such creatures, so redeem'd. 
Kero. Out on that dreaming madness .'' 
Cor. Is it madness 
To be the humble follower of Him, 
Who left the bliss of heaven to be for us 
A man on earth, in spotless virtue living 
As man ne'er lived : such words of comfort 

speaking. 
To rouse, and elevate, and cheer tho heart, 
As man ne'er spoke ; and sufFring poverty, 
Contempt, and wrong, and pain, and death 

itself. 
As man ne'er suffer'd .' — O, if this be mad- 
ness. 
Which makes each generous impulse of my 

nature 
Warm into ecstasy, each towering hope 
Rise to the noblest height of bold concep- 
tion ; 
That which is reason call'd, and yet has taught 

you 
To worship different gods in every clime, 
As dull and wicked as their worshippers, 
Compared to it, is poor, confined, and mean. 
As is the Scythian's curtain'd tent, compared 
With the wide range of fair, expanded nature. 
Nero. Away, away ! with all thoiie lofty 

words I 
They but bewilder thee. 

Cor. Yet hear them, Wero! O resist them 

not! 
Perhaps they are appointed for thy good, 
And for the good of thousands. When these 

hands 
Which have so ofl done Rome a soldier's ser- 
vice. 
This tongue which speaks to thee, are turn'd 

to ashes, 
What now appears so wild and fanciful. 
May be remember'd with far other feelings. 
It is not life that I request of Nero, 
Altho' I said these hands have fought for 

Rome. 
No ; in the presence of these senators. 
First bind thyself by every sacred oath 
To give this body to the flames, then hear 

me ; 
O could I speak what might convince Rome's 

chief, 
Her senators, her tribes, her meanest slaves, 
Of Christ's most blessed truth, the fatal pile 
Would be to me a car of joyful triumph. 
Mounted more gladly than the laurell'd hero 
Vaults to his envied seat, while Rome's 

throng'd streets 
Resound his shouted name. Within me stirs 
The spirit of truth and power which spoke to 

me. 

And will upon thy mind. 

Nero. I charge thee cease ! 

Ore. Nay, Emperor ! might I entreat for 

him .' 
Cor. (catcithig hold of Oiceres eagerly.) Not 

for my life. 
Ore. No ; not for that, brave Maro ! 
( To Nero.) Let me entreat that lie may freely 

speak. 



46G 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA, 



Fear'st thou he should convince thee by his 

words ? 
That were a foul aflront to thine own reason, 
Or to the high divinities of Rome. 
Nero. Cease, Prince of Parthia I nor too far 
presume 
Upon a noble stranger's privilege. 
Pon. Sliall words so bold be to mine ear 
august 
So freely utter"d with impunity ? 

Ore. Pontilf; I much revere thy sacred 
office, 
But scorn thy paltry words. Not freely speak ! 
Not with impunity ! Is this a threat.'' 
Let Rome's great master, or his angry slaves, 
yhed one drop of my blood, and on our plains 
Where heretofore full many a Roman corse. 
With Parthian arrows pierced, have vultures 

fed, 
Twice thirty thousand archers in array, 
Each with his bow strain'd for the distant 

mark, 
Shall quickly stand, impatient for revenge. 
Not with impunity I 

Sul. Nay, nay, Orceres ! with such haugh- 
ty words 
Thou'lt injure him thou plead'st for. Noble 

Ca3sar ! 
Permit an aged man, a faithful servant, 
To speak his thoughts. This brave deluded 

youth 
Is now, as I sincerely do believe, 
Beneatla the power of strong and dire enchant- 
ment. 
Hear not his raving words, but spare his life. 
And when its power (for all delusion holds 
Its power but for a season) shall be spent, 
He will himself entreat your clemency, 
And be again the soldier of the state, 
Brave and obedient. Do not hear him now ; 
Command him to retire. 

Cor. I thank thee, good Sulpicius, but my 
life. 
For which thou plead'st, take no account of 

that : 
I yield it freely up to any death. 
Cruel or merciful, which the decree 
Of Cassar shall inflict, for leave to speak 
Ev'n but a few short moments. Princely 

Nero ! 
The strong enchantment which deludes my 

soul 
Is, that I do believe myself the creature, 
Subject and Soldier, if I so may speak, 
Of an Almighty Father, King, and Lord, 
Before whose presence, when my soul shall 

be 
Of flesh and blood disrobed, I shall appear, 
There to remain M'ith all the great and good 
That e'er have lived on earth ; yea, and with 

spirits. 
Higher than earth e'er own'd, in such pure 

bliss 
As human heart conceives not, — if my life, 
With its imperfect virtue, find acceptance 
From pard'ning love and mercy; but, if oth- 
erwise. 



That I shall pass into a state of misery 
With souls of wicked men and wrathful de- 
mons. 
That I believe this earth on which we stand 
Is but tiie vestibule to glorious mansions. 
Thro' which a moving crowd forever press ; 
And do regard the greatest Prince, wha 

now 
Inflicts short torment on this flesh, as one 
Who but in passing rudely rends my robe. 
And thinkest thou that 1, believing this, 
Will slirink to do His will whom I adore .'' 
Or thinkest thou this is a senseless charm, 
Which soon will pass away .'' 
Nero. High words, indeed, if resting on 
good proof! 
A maniac's fancies may be grand and noble. 
Cor. Ay, now thou list'nest, as a man 
should listen. 
With an inquiring mind. Let me produce 
The proofs which have constrain'd me to be- 
lieve. 
From written lore and well attested facts ; — 
Let me produce my proofs, and it may be. 
The Spirit of Truth may touch thy yielding 

heart, 
And save thee from destruction. 
Nero. Ha ! dost thou think to make of me 
a convert.'' 
Away, weak fool ! and most audacious rebel ! 
Give proofs of thy obedience, not thy faith, 
If thou would'st earn thy pardon. 

Cor. If thou condemn me in the flames to 
die, 
I will and must obey thee ; if to live. 
Disgraced by pardon won thro' treachery 
To God, m)' King supreme, and his bless'd 

Christ, 
I am, indeed, thy disobedient rebel. 
Nero. And shall as such, most dearly pay 
the forfeit. 
Out ! — take him from my presence till the 

time 
Of public execution. 
Cordenius Maro, thou shalt fall this day 
By no ignoble foe ; — a noble lion 
Famish'd and fierce, shall be thy adversary. 
And dost thou smile and raise thy head at 

this. 
In stately confidence .' 

Cor. God will deliver me from every ad- 
versary. 
And thou too smilest. — Yes ; he will deliver 
That which I call myself. For this poor form 
Which vests me round, I give it to destruc- 
tion 
As gladly as the storm-beat traveller. 
Who, having reached his destined place of 

shelter. 
Drops at the door his mantle's cumbrous 
weight. 
Nero, (going.) Then to thy visionary hopes 
I leave thee. 
Incorrigible man ! Here, in this chamber 
Keep him secure till the appointed hour. 

{To the Officers, &c.). 
Off, good Sulpicius ! hang not on me thus ! 



THE MARTYR t A DRAMA. 



46? 



Sul. O, mighty CjEsar 1 countermand jour 
orders : 
Delay it but a month, a week, a day. 
[Exeunt Nero, Sulpicius, Senators, ^-c. Sul- 
picius still keeping close to Nero in the act 
of supplication. — Orceres, Cordenius, and 
Guards remain, the Guards standing re- 
spectfully at a distance in the hack-ground. 
Ore. Noble Cordenius ! can thy martial 
spirit 
Thus brook to be a public spectacle, 
Fighting with savage beasts, the sport of 

fools. 
Till thou shalt fall, deformed and horrible, 
Mangled and piece-meal torn .' It must not 
be. 
Cor. Be not so moved, Orceres ; I can bear 
it: 
The God I worship, who hath made me hum- 
ble. 
Hath made me dauntless too. And for the 

shame 
Which, as I guess, disturbs thee most, my 

Master, 
The Lord and Leader I have sworn to fol- 
low. 
Did as a malefactor end his days, 
To save a lost, perverted race : shall I 
Feel degradation, then, in following him ? 
Ore. In this, alas ! thou'lt follow him too 
surely ; 
But whither, noble Maro .'' 

Cor. Ev'n to my destined home, my Fath- 
er's house. 
Ore. And where is that .'' O, canst thou tell 
me where .'' 
Beyond the ocean or beneath the earth .' 
Be there more worlds than this, beyond our 

ken 
In regions vast, above the lofty stars ? 
Could we thro' the farstretcli of space descry 
Ev'n but the distant verge, tho' dimly mark'd. 
Of any other world, I would believe 
That virtuous men deceased have in good 

truth 
A destined place of rest. 

Cor. Believe it — O, believe it, brave Orce- 
res ! 
Oic. I'll try to do it. I'll become a Chris- 
tian, 
Were it but only to defy this tyrant. 

Cor. Thou must receive with a far different 
spirit 
The faith of Jesus Christ. Perhaps thou wilt. 
My heart leaps at the thought. When I am 

dead, 
Remain in Rome no longer. In the East 
Search thou for Ethocles, whom I have res- 
cued ; 
And if he shall convert thee, O, how richly 
He will repay all I have done for him ! 
— But, I would now withdraw a little space. 
To pour my thoughts in prayer and thankful- 
ness 
To Him, the great, the good, the wise, the 
just, 

37 



Who holds man's spirit in his own high keep- 
ing. 

And now supports my soul, and will support 
it, 

Till my appointed task is done. In secret 

The hearts by Jesus taught, were bid to pray, 

And, if it be permitted, so will I. 

{To the Guards, icho advance as he speaks to 
them.) 

My guards and, some time past, my fellow- 
soldiers. 

Let me remain alone a little while. 

And fear not my escape. If ye distrust me, 

Watch well the door, and bind my hands with 
chains. 
First OJJi. Yes, brave Cordenius, to anoth- 
er chamber 

Thou may'st retire, and we will watch with- 
out. 

But be thy person free : we will not bind, 

With felon cord or chain, those valiant hands 

Whicli have so often for thy country fought, 

Until we are commanded. 

Cor. I thank ye all, my friends, and I be- 
lieve 

That I shall meet and thank ye too hereafter ; 

For there is something in you God must lovCj 

And, loving, will not give to reprobation. 

(To First Officer.) 

Codrus, thou once didst put thy life in hazard, 

And sufferedst much to save a helpless Greek 

Who sought protection of thee. 

(Turning to the Second Officer.) 

Ay, and thou, 

Young Lehus, once a rich and tempting ran- 
som 

Nobly remittedst to a wretched captive. 

Ye are of those whom Jesus came to save : 

Yes ; we shall meet hereafter. 

{To Third Officer.) 

And thou, my former enemy, wecpest thou ? 

We're enemies no more ; thou art my brother. 

I will retire ; my little term of life 

Runs fleetly on ; I must not spend it thus. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IlL — a crowded amphithea- 
tre: NERO AND THE SENATORS DIS- 
COVERED IN THE BACK-GROUND SIT- 
TING IN STATE, PORTIA BY THE SIDE 
OF NERO, IN THE ACT OF SUPPLICA- 
TION. 

Enter Sulpicius on the front, meeting with 
another noble Roman. 

Sul. {eagerly.) Is he advancing .' 
J^ohle Rom. Yes, and close at hand. 
Surrounded by a group of martial friends. 
Oft have I seen him on a day of battle 
March to the charge with noble portly gait. 
But now he treads the ground with buoyant 

steps 
Which from its surface sjuing, as tho' he 

press'd 
Substance of renovating power. His form 



468 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



Seems stately and enlarged beyond its wont ; 
And in his countenance, oft tiun'd to heaven, 
There is a look as if sojne god dwelt in him. 

Sul. How do the people greet him ? ■ 

JVoblc Rom. Every face 
Gazing upon him, turns, with transit quick. 
Pity to admiration. Warlike veterans 
Are shedding tears like infants. As he passed 
The Legion Jie commanded in Armenia, 
They raised a shout as if a victor came. 
Saluting him with long and loud applause, 
JNone daring to reprove them. 

(JVoise without of shoutings.) 
Hark ! he comes. 

Enter Cordenius, followed by Orceres and 
Sylvius, and attended by other friends, with 
Guards, &c. 

Sul. {advancing eagerly to meet him.) Cor- 
denius, O Cordenius ! hear a friend, 
A faithful ancient friend ; thy Portia's father ! 
At Nero's footstool she is pleading for thee, 
And will not plead in vain, if thou wilt testify 
A yielding mind, a willingness to live. 

Cor. I am so pleased to die, and am so hon- 
our'd 
In dying for the pure and holy truth. 
That nature's instinct seems m me extin- 

guish'd. 
But if the Emperor freely pardon me, 
I shall believe it is the will of God 
That I should yet on earth promote his ser- 
vice , 
And, so believing, am content to live; 
Living or dying, to his will resign'd. 

Enter Portia on the front, and catching hold of 
Cordenius with eagerness and great agita- 
tion. 

Por. Cordenius, thou art pardoned. Nero 
spares thee. 
If thou wilt only saj' thou art a Roman, 
In heart and faith as all thy fathers were, 
Or but forbear to say thou art a Christian. 
Cor. Thanks, gentle Portia ! life preserved 
by thee. 
Even to be spent in want and contumely, 
Rather than grieve thy kind and tender heart. 
My dearest, gentlest friend ! I had accepted : 
But to deny my God, and put dishonour 
Upon the noblest, most exalted faith 
That ever was to human thougiits reveal'd, 
Is what I will not — yea, and tho' a Roman, 
A noble Roman, and a soldier too, 
I dare not do. Let Nero have this answer. 
Por. No, not this answer, Maro ; not this 
answer ! 
Cast not life from thee, dear, most dear Cor- 
denius ! 
Life, too, which I should spend my life in 

cheering, 
Cast it not from thee like a worthless thing. 
Cor. Because it is not worthless but most 
precious, 
And now, when dear to thee, more precious far 
Than I have e'er esteem'd it, 'tis an ofFerino- 
More meet for God's acceptance ; 



Withheld from Him, not even thyself, sweet 
maid, 

Couldst cheer its course, nor yet couldstthou 
be happy. 
Por. Nay, but I could I— to see thee still 
alive. 

And by my side, mine own redeemed friend, 

Should I not then be happy.' 

Cor. I should be by thy side, dear love ! but 
thou, 

With all thy excellence,couldst]iave no hap- 
piness, 

Mated with one, whose living form alone 

Could move upon the earth, whilst far adrift 

His mind would dwell, by ceaseless medita- 
tion, 

In other worlds of blessedness or woe ; 

Lost to the one, and to the other link'd 

By horrid sympathy, till his wrench'd nature 

Should to a demon's fell and restless spirit 

At last be changed. 

Por. Alas, alas ! and dost thou then believe 

That nought remains for thee but death or 
misery ^ 
Cor. No, gentle Portia ! firmly I believe 

That I shall live in endless happiness. 

And with the blest hereafter shall behold 

Thy blessed self, with ecstasy of love. 

Exceeding every thought of earth-born pas- 
sion, 

As the fair morning star in lovely brightness 

Excels a night-fly, twinkling thro' the gloom. 

Live in this hope, dear Portia ! hold it fast; 

And may His blessing rest upon thy head, 

Who loves the loving and the innocent ! 

Farewell, in love and hope ! farewell, in 
peace I 

Farewell, in quick'ning faith, — in holy joy ! 
Por. {da.'rping his knees.) Nay, let me yet 
conjure thee ! 

Make me not wretched, me who once was 
happy. 

Ay, happiest of all in loving thee. 

Cor. This is mine anguish and my suffer- 
ing ! 

O, good Sulpicius ! bear her to her home. 
Sul. {leading her gently away, ichde she 
still clings to him.) Forbear, my 
child, thy tears are all in vain. 

Enter a Lictor. 

Lie. Cassar forbids all further interruption 
To his imperial sentence. Let Cordenius 
Forthwith prepare him for the fatal fight. 
This is mine office, and I must perform it. 
{Begins to disrobe Cordenius, ichilc Portia 

shrieks aloud, and is carried off in the arms 

of her father.) 
Disrobe thee, Maro, of those martial weeds. 

Cor. Gladly ; for him I serve, — my glori- 
ous Master 
Hath braced me with an armour that defies 
All hostile things ; in which I'll strive more 

proudly 
Than I have ever fought in field or breach 
With Rome's or Nero's foes. 

Lie. CoBsar desires thee also to remember^ 



THE MARTYR: A DRAMA. 



459 



That no ignoble audience, e'en thy Em- 
peror, 
And all the states of Rome, behold thy deeds. 
Cor. Tell him my deeds shall witness'd be 
hy those 
Compared to whom the Emperor of Rome, 
With all her high estates, are but as insects 
Hov'ring at mid-day o'er some tainted marsh. 
I know full well that no ignoble audience 
Are present, tho' from mortal eyes con- 

ceal'd. 
Farewell, my friends ! kind, noble friends, 

farewell ! 
{Apart to Sylvius, while Orceres goes off, re- 
appearing in another part of the theatre.) 
Sylvius, farewell I If thou should'st e'er be 

call'd 
To die a holy Martyr for the truth, 
God give thee then the joy which now I feel. 
But keep thy faith conceal'd, till useful ser- 
vice 
Shall call thee to maintain it. God be with 
thee ! ( Looking round.) 

Where is Orceres gone .' I thought him near 
me. 
Syl. 'Tis but a moment since he left thy 
side 
With eager haste. 

Cor. He would not see my death. I'm glad 
he's gone. 
Say I inquired for him, and say I bless'd him. 
^Now I am ready. Earthly friends are 

gone. 
Ano-els and blessed spirits, to your fellowship. 
A Tew short pangs will bring me. 
— O, Thou, who on the Cross for sinful 

men 
A willing suffrer hung'st! receive my 

soul ! 
Almighty God and Sire, sppreme o'er all ! 
Pardon my sins and take me to thyself ! 
Accept the last words of my earthly lips : 
High hallelujah to thy holy name ! 
yi Lion now appears, issuing from a loio door 
at the end of the Stage, and Cordenius, 
advancing to meet it, enters the Jlrcna, when 
Orceres from a lofty stand amongst the 
spectators, sends an arrow from his how, 
which pierces Cordenius through the heart. 
He then disappears, and re-entering below, 
catches hold of his hand as SyWius supports 
him from faUing to the ground.) 
Ore. {to Cordenius.) Have I done well, my 
friend ? — this is a death 
More worthy of a Roman. 
I made a vow in secret to my heart. 
That thou shouldst ne'er be made a mangled 

sight 
For gazing crowds and Nero's ruthless eye. 
Syl. That dying look, which almost smiles 
upon thee. 
Says that thou hast done well ; tho' words no 

more 
May pass from these closed lips, whose last, 

bless'd utterance 
Was the soul's purest and sublimest impulse. 
( The Curtain drops.) 



NOTE TO THE DRAMA. 



For the better understanding of different 
allusions in the foregoing drama, I beg to 
transcribe a few passages from Fox's History 
of Martyrs, taken from Book I., which con- 
tains an account of the ten persecutions of 
the primitive church. 

He says, on the authority of Justin Martyr, 
— "And whether earthquake, pestilence, or 
whatever public calamity befell, it was attrib- 
uted to the Christians ; " (then is added) 
" over and besides all these, a great occasion 
that stirred up the emperors against the Chris- 
tians came by one Publius Tarquinius, the 
chief prelate of the idolatrous sacrifices, and 
Mamertinus, the chief governor of the city, 
in the time of Trajanus, who, partly with 
money, partly with sinister, pestilent coun- 
saile, partly with infamous accusations, fas 
witiiesseth Nauclerus,) incensed the mind of 
the emperor so much against God's people." 

In the account of the third persecution 
(An; 100), Eustasius, a great and victorious 
captain, is mentioned as suffering martyrdom 
by order of the Emperor Adrian, who went to 
meet him on his return from conquest over 
the barbarians, but upon Eustasius's refusing 
on the way to do sacrifice to Apollo for his 
victory, brought him to Rome, and had him 
put to death. 

In the fourth persecution, (An. 162), it is 
mentioned that many Christian soldiers were 
found in the army of Marcus Aurelius. 

" As these aforesaid were going to their ex- 
ecution, there was a certain scldiour who in 
their defence took part against those who ray- 
led upon them, for the which cause the peo- 
ple crying out against him, he was appre- 
hended, and being constant in his profession, 
was forthwith beheaded." 

In the persecutions of Decius, several sol- 
diers are mentioned as martyrs, some of whom 
had before concealed their faith ; and in the 
tenth persecution, Mauritius, the captain of 
the Theban band, with his soldiers, to the 
number of 6666 (a number probably greatly 
exaggerated j , are recorded as having been 
slain as martyrs by the order of Maximin- 
ian. 

Tertullian, in his Apology for the Chris- 
tians, mentions the slanderous accusations 
against them, of putting to death children and 
worshipping an ass's head. And when we 
consider how fond the ignorant are of excite- 
ment arising from cruel, absurd, and wonder- 
ful stories, and how easily a misapprehended 
and detached expression may be shaped by 
conjecture into a detailed transaction, such 
accusations were very probable and might be 
naturally expected j particularly when the 
unoffending meekness of their behaviour made 
supposed hidden atrocities more necessary for 
the justification of their persecutors, 



TO THE READER, 



The following play is not offered to the pub- 
lic as it is acted in the Edinburgh theatre, but 
is printed from tile original copy wliicli I gave 
to that tlicatre. Tlie story, from which 1 have 
taken the plot is this. 

In tlie 15th century, a feud had long sub- 
sisted between the lord of Argyll and the 
chieftain of Maclean ; the latter was totally 
liubdued by tlie Campbells, and Maclean* su- 
ed for peace, demanding at the same time, in 
marriage, the young and beautiful daughter 
of Argyll. His request was granted, and the 
lady carried home to the island of Mull. 
There slie had a son, but the Macleans were 
hostile to this alliance witli the Campbells. — 
Tiiey swore to desert their chief if they were 
not suffered to put his wife to death, with her 
infant son, who was then at nurse, that the 
blood of the Campbells might not succeed to 
the inheritance of Maclean. Maclean resist- 
ed these .tlireats ; fearing the power and ven- 
geance of Argyll ; but at lengtli fear for his 
own life, should he refuse the demands of his 
clan, made him yield to their fury, and he 
only drew from them a promise that they 
would not shed her blood. One dark winter 
night slie was forced into a boat, and, regard- 
less of her cries and lamentations, left upon 
a barren rock, mid-way between the coasts of 
Mull and Argyll, which, at high-water, 
is covered with the sea. . As she was about to 
perish, she saw a boat steering its course at 
some distance ; she waved her hand, and ut- 
tered a feeble cry. She was now upon the 
top of the rock, and the water as high as her 
breast, so that the boatmen mistook her for a 
large bird. They took her, however, from 
the rock, and, knowing her to be the daugh- 
ter of Argyll, carried her to the castle of her 
father, t 

The earl rewarded her deliverers, and de- 
sired them to keep the circumstance secret 
for a time, during which he concealed her till 
lie should hear from Mull. Maclean solemn- 
ly announced her death to Argyll, and soon 
came himself with his friends, all in mourn- 
ing, to condole with the Earl at his castle. 
Argyll received him clad also in black. Mac- 
lean was full of lamentations ; tiie earl ap- 
peared very sorrowful ; a feast was served 
with great pomp in the hall ; every one took 
his place, while a seat was left empty on the 
right hand of Argyll ; the door opened, and 
they beheld the lady of Maclean enter, su- 



C.alled in the representation Duart. 

t The boat was commanded by her foster-fath- 
er, who knew the cry of his Dalt, i, e. foster- 
daughter, and iiLsisted they should pull into the 

rctrV 



rock 



perbly dressed, to take her place at the table. 
Maclean stood for a moment aghast, when, 
the servants and retainers making a lane for 
him to pass through tiie hall to the gate of 
the castle, the earl's son, the lord of Lome, 
followed him, and slew him as he fled. His 
friends were detained as hostages for the child, 
who had been preserved by the affections of 
his nurse. — " So far," says my copy of the le- 
gend, " the story is authentic, and delivered 
from age to age in ancient gaelic songs ; and 
it is likewise a tradi tion from generation to 
generation in the family of Argyll. The same 
authorities also add,that this deserving daugh- 
ter of Argyll was rewarded for her sufferings 
by wedding, with her father's consent, an ami- 
able young nobleman who adored her, and 
was mutually beloved. To this man her fa- 
ther had formerly refused her hand, disposing 
of her as a bond of union, to unite the warring 
clans of Argyll and Maclean." 

Such is the substance of my story, with no 
circumstance of the smallest consequence 
omitted ; and my reader will perceive 1 have 
deviated from it very slightly. In regard to 
the characters that people it, I was lelt, ex- 
cept in two instances, entirely to invention ; 
viz. that of Argyll, who in keeping secret the 
return of his daughter, &.c. gives one the 
idea of a cautious and crafty man ; and that 
of Maclean, who being said not to have con- 
sented at first to give up his wife for fear of 
the vengeance of his father-in-law, and after- 
wards to have done so for fear of losing his 
life, though with a promise drawn from the 
clan that they should not shed her blood, gives 
one the idea of a man cowardly and mean, 
but not savage ; a personage as little fitted for 
the drama as one could well imagine. To 
make the chief of Mull, therefore, somewhat 
interesting and presentable and yet fit for the 
purposes of the story, has been the greatest 
difficulty I have had to contend with : a dif- 
ficulty, 1 readily admit, which it required a 
more skilful hand to overcome. To have 
made him sacrifice his wife from jealousy, 
was a common beaten path, which 1 felt no 
inclination to enter ; and, though it might 
have been consistent with his conduct in the 
first part of the story, would not, as I con- 
ceive, have been at all so with his conduct in 
the conclusion of it, when he comes to the 
castle of Argyll. To have made him rude, 
unfeeling, and cruel, and excited against her 
by supposing she was actually plotting his 
ruin at the instigation of her father, would 
only have presented us with a hard, bare, un- 
shaded character, which takes no hold of our 
interest or attention. I have, therefore, im- 
agined hini a man of personal courage, brave 



TO THE READER. 



461 



in the field, but weak and timid in counsel, 
irresolute and unsteady in action ; supersti- 
tious, and easily swayed by others, yet anx- 
ious to preserve his power as chieftain ; at- 
tached to his clan, attached to his lady, and 
of an affectionate and gentle disposition. I 
have never put him in the course of the play 
at all in fear of his life. The fear of being 
deserted by his clan, and losing his dignity 
as their chief, with the superstitious dread of 
bringing some terrible calamity upon the 
Macleans, are represented as the motives for 
his crime. These qualities, I supposed, might 
have formed a character, imperfect and repre- 
hensible indeed to a deplorable degree, but 
neither uninteresting nor detestable. As to 
his telling a direct lie when the earl questions 
him so closely about his wife's death, his 
whole conduct at the castle of Argyll, coming 
there in mourning as from a funeral, is an 
enacted lie ; and it would have been very in- 
consistent with such conduct to have made 
him, when so hardly beset, hold out against 
this last act of degradation and unworthiness, 
which exhibits a lesson to every ingenuous 
mind more powerful than his death. 

This character, however, the design of 
which I am doing what I can to defend, has 
not, I fear, been very skilfully executed ; for, 
I understand,- it has been pretty generally 
condemned ; and when this is the case, par- 
ticularly by an audience eminently disposed 
to be favourable, there must be afault some- 
where, either in design or execution. I must 
confess, I should wish this fault to be found 
in the last particular rather than the first : 
not for the sake of the play itself, which suf- 
fers equally in either case, but because there 
is a taste, that too generally prevails, for hay- 



ing all tragic characters drawn very good or 
very bad, and having the qualities of the su- 
perior personages allotted to them according 
to established heroic rules, by which all man- 
ner of cruelty, arrogance, and tyranny are 
freely allowed, while the slightest mixture of 
timidity, or any other of the tamer vices, are 
by no means to be tolerated. It is a taste, in- 
deed, that arises from a nobleness in our na- 
ture ; but the general prevalence of which 
would be the bane of all useful and natural 
delineation of character. For this reason, 
then, I would fain justify, if I could, the gen- 
eral design of Maclean's character, leaving 
the execution of it to the mercy of all who 
may do me the honour to bestow upon it any 
attention. 

Had I not trusted to what Maclean and oth- 
ers, in the course of the play, assert of his 
personal courage, but brought out some cir- 
cumstance in the cavern scene, before his 
spirits were cowed with superstitious dread, 
that would really have shown it ; his character, 
perhaps, would have appeared less liable to 
objection. It v.-as my intention in that scene 
that he should have been supposed to leave 
the stage with his mind greatly subdued and 
bewildered, but not j'et prevailed upon to give 
up his wife ; leaving the further effects pro- 
duced upon him by the seer of the isle, which 
did prevail on him to take the oath demanded 
by his vassals to be imagined by the audience ; 
thinking it unsafe to venture such an exhibi- 
tion upon the stage, lest it should have a lu- 
dicrous effect. But this my intention I must 
have badly fulfilled, since it has been, I be- 
lieve, almost entirely overlooked. In the cav- 
ern scene, I doubt, I have foolishly bestowed 
more pains on the vassals than the laird. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Maclean, Chief of the clan of that name. 

The Eakl ok Argyll, 

John of Lorni;, son to Argyll, 

Sir Hubert df. Grey, friend to Lome, 

Benlora, ^ the kinsmen and 

LocHTARisH, > chief vassals of 

Glenfadden, 3 Maclean. 

Morton, 

Dcjgald, 

Piper, Fishermen, Vassals, &c. 

WOMEN. 

Helen, daughter of Aigy I], and wife 0/ Mac- 
lean. 
Rosa. 
Fisherman's wife. 

Scene in the island of Mull, and the opposite 
coast, ^c. and afterwards in Argyll's Castle. 



PROLOGUE. 



written by WALTER SCOTT, ESQ. 

Tis sweet to hear expiring sumrjier's sigh, 
Through forests tinged with russet, w9.ii and 

die ; 
Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear ; 
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, 
We list the legends of our native land, 
Linked as they come with every tender tie, 
Memorials dear af youth and infancy. 

Chief ihy wild tales, romantic Caledon, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son ; 
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, 
Or till Acadia's * winter-fettered soil, 
He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd 

eyes, 
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise I 
It opens on his soul his native dell, 
Thejwoods' wild waving, and the water's swell. 
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the 

plain, 
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain ; 
The cot, beneath whose simple porch was told 
By grey hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, 
The infant group that hush'd their sports the 

while. 
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile. 
The wanderer, while the vision warms his 

brain, 
Is denizen of Scotland once again. 



' Acadia,'or Nova Scotia, 



Are such keen feelings to the crowd con- 
fined, 
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind ? 
Oh no ! for she, within whose mighty page 
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage, 
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire. 
And to our own traditions tuned her lyre. 
Yourselves shall judge — whoe'er has raised 

the sail 
By Mull's dark coast, has heard tliis evening's 

tale. 
The plaided boatmen, resting on his oar, 
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to- 
night 
Our huu)hie stage shall offer to your sight ; 
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give 
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and 

live ; 
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
The filial token of a daughter's love. 



ACT I. 

Scene L — before the gate of mac- 
lean's CASTLE, IN the ISLE OF MULL. 

Several highlanders discovered crossing, carry- 
ing loads of fuel; whilst Benlora is seen on 
one side, in the back ground, pacing to and 
fro, and frequently stopping and muttering to 
himself. 

1st High. Tliis heavy load, I hope, will b& 
the last : 
My back is almost broken. 

2d High. Sure am I, 
Were every beeve in Mull slain for the feast, 
Fuel enough already has been stow'd 
To roast them all : and must we still with 

burdens 
Our weary shoulders gall .' 

Enter Morton. 

Mot. Ye lazy lubbards ! 

Grumble ye thus .'' — ye would prefer, I trow^ 

To sun your easy sides, like household curs. 

Each on his dung-hill stretch'd, in drowsy 

sloth. 
Fie on't, to grumble on a day like this, 
When to the clan a rousing feast is given, 
In honour of an heir born to the chief — 
A brave Maclean, still to maintain the hon- 
ours 
Of this your ancient race ! 

1st High. A brave Maclean indeed ! — vile 
mongrel hound ! 
Come from the south, where all strange mix- 
tures be 
Of base and feeble ! sprung of varlet's blood I 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



463 



What is our race to thee ? 
2d High, (to Morton.) Thou'ltchew,! doubt 
not, 
Thy morsel in the hall with right good relish, 
Whether Maclean or Campbell be our lord. 

Mor. Ungracious surly lubbards ! in, 1 say. 
And bring your burdens quicker. And, be- 
sides, 
Where is ths heath and hare-bells, from the 

glen. 
To deck my lady's chamber .'' 

2d High. To deck my lady's chamber I 
Mor. Heartless hounds ! 
Is she not kind and gentle .'' spares she aught 
Her generous stores afford, when you or yours 
Are sick, or lack relief? hoards she in chests. 
When shipwreck'd strangers shiver on our 

coast, 
Or robe or costly mantle .' — all comes forth I 
And when the piercing shriek of drowning 

mariners 
•Breaks through the night, up starting from 

her couch, 
To snatch, with eager haste, the flaming 

torch, 
And from the tower give notice of relief, 
Who comes so swiftly as her noble self.'' 
And yet ye grumble. 

1st High. Ay, we needs must own, 
That, were she not a Campbell, fit she were 
To be a queen, or even the thing she is — 
Our very chieftain's dame. But, in these 

towers, 
The daughter of Argyll to be our lady ! 
Mor. Out ! mountain savages ! is this your 
spite .' 
Goto! 
2d High. Speak*st thou to us .' thou low- 
land loun ! 
Thou wandering pedlar's son, or base me- 
chanic ! 
Comest thou to lord it here o'er brave Mac- 
leans .'' 
We'll carry loads at leisure, or forbear. 
As suits our fancy best, nor wait thy bidding. 
[Exeunt Highlanders and Morton. 
Ben. (after a pause, not observing Lochta- 
rish, who enters behind him.) Heigh 
ho, lieigh ho, the day ! 
Loch. How so ? what makes Benlora sigh 

so deeply .■' 
Ben. {turnimg.) And does Lochtarish ask .' 
full well thou know'st. 
The battles of our clan I've boldly fought. 
And will maintain'd its honour . 
Loch. Yes, we know it. 
Ben. Who dared, unpunished, a Maclean 
to injure .'' 
Yea ; he who dared but with a scornful lip 
Our name insult, I thought it feeble ven- 
geance 
If steed or beeve within his walls were lefl. 
Or of his holds one tower unruined stood. 
Loch. Ay ; who dared then to brave us .-' 
Ben. Thus dealt Benlora even with com- 
mon foes ; 
But in the warfare of our deadly feud. 



When rung the earth beneath our bloody 

strife, 
And brave Macleans brave Campbells boldly 

fronted , 
Fiends as they are, I still must call them brave, 
What sword more deeply drank the hated 

blood 
Than this which now I grasp — but idly grasp. 
Loch. There's ne'er a man of us that knows 

it not. 
That swears not by thy valor. 

Ben. Until that fatal day, by ambush ta'en. 
And in a dungeon kept, where, two long 

years, 
Nor light of day, nor human voice e'er cheer'd 
My loneliness, when did I ever yield. 
To even the bravest of that halei'ul name, 
One step of ground upon the embattled field' — 
One step of honour in the banner'd hall .-■ 
Loch. Indeed thou hast our noble champion 

been ; 
Deserving well the trust our chief deceased. 
This chieftain's father, did to thee consign. 
But when thou wert a captive, none to head 

us. 
But he, our youthful lord, yet green in arms, 
We fought like Macleans ; or else our foe, 
Qy fiends assisted, fought with fiend like 

power ; 
Far — far beyond the Campbell's Wonted pitch. 
Even so it did befal : — we lost the day — : 
That fatal day ! then came this shameful 

peace. 
Ben. Ay, and this wedding; when, in form 

of honour 
Conferr'd upon us, Helen of Argyll 
Our sovereign dame was made, — a bosom 

worm. 
Nursed in that viper's nest, to infuse its venom 
Through all our after race. This is my wel- 
come ! 
From dungeons freed, to find my once-loved 

home 
With such vile change disgraced ; to me more 

hateful 
Than thraldom's murkiest den. But to be 

loosen 'd 
From captive's chains, to find my hands thus 

bound ! 
Loch. It is, indeed, a vile and irksome 

peace. 
Ben. Peace, say they ! who will bonds of 

friendship sign 
Between the teeming ocean's finny broods, 
And say, ' sport these upon the hither waves, 
And leave to those that farther billowy reach V 
A Campbell here to queen it o'er our head.<?. 
The potent dame o'er quell'd and beaten men, 
Rousing or soothing us, as proud Argyll 
Shall send her secret counsel ! — hold, my 

heart ! 
This, base degenerate men ! — this, call ye 

peace ! 
Forgive my weakness ; with dry eyes I laid 
My mother in her grave, but now ray cheeks 
Are, like a cliild's, with scalding drops dis- 
graced. 



464 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Loch. What I shall look upon, ere in the 

dust 
My weary head is laid to rest, Heaven knows, 
Since I have lived to see Benlora weep. 
Ben. One thing, at least, thou ne'er shalt 

live to see — 
Eenlora crouching-, where he has commanded. 
Go, ye who will, and crowd the chieftain's 

hall, 
And deal tlie feast, and nod your grizzled 

heads 
To martial pibrochs, play'd, in better days. 
To those who conquer'd,not who wooed their 

foes ; 
My soul abhors it. On the sea beat rock, 
Removed from every form and sound of man ; 
In proud communion with the fitful winds 
Which speak, with many tongues, the fancied 

words 
Of those who long in silent dust have slept ; 
While eagles scream, and sullen surges roar — 
The boding sounds of ill ; — I'll hold my 

feast, — 
My moody revelry. 

Loch. Nay, why so fierce .' 
Think'st thou we are a tame and mongrel 

pack .' 
Dogs of true breed we are, though for a time 
Our master-hound forsakes us. Rouse him 

forth 
The noble chase to lead : his deep-toned yell 
Full well we know ; and for the opening sport 
EJant keenly. 

Ben. Ha ! is there amongst ye still 
Spirit enough for this .-' 

Loch. Yes, when good opportunity shall 

favour. 
Of this, my friend, I'll speak to thee more 

fully 
When time shall better serve. Maclean, thou 

know'st, 
Is of a soft, unsteady, yielding nature ; 
And this, too well, the crafty Cambpell knew. 
When to our isle he sent this wily witch 
To mould, and govern, and besot his wits. 
As suits his crafty ends. 1 know the youth : 
This dame or we must hold his will in thral- 
dom : 
Which of the two, — but softly: steps approach. 
Of this again. 

Bc?i. As early as thou wilt. 
Loch . Then be it so : some staunch deter- 
mined spirits 
This night in Irka's rocky cavern meet. 
There must thou join us. Wear thou liere 

the while 
A brow less cloudy, suited to the times. 

Enter Glenfadden. 

See, here comes one who wears a merry face ; 
Yet, ne'ertheless, a clan's-man staunch he is, 
Who hates a Campbell, worse than Ilcom's 

monks 
The horned fiend. 

Ben. Ha ! does he so .' (to Glenfadden,) 

Glenfadden ! 



How goes it with thee ? — ^joyous days are 

these — 
These days of peace. 

Glen. These days of foul disgrace I 
Comest thou to cheer the piper in our hall. 
And goblets quaff to the young chieftain's 

health. 
From proud Argyll descended ? 

Ben. (smiling grimly.) Yes, Glenfadden, 
If ye will have it so ; not else. 

Glen. Thy hand— 
Thy noble hand ! — thou art Benlora still. 
{Shaking Benlora warmly by the hand, and 

then turning to Lochtarish.) 
Know ye that banish'd Allen is return'd — 
Allen of Dura .' 

Loch. No ; I knew it not. 
But in good time he comes. A daring knave : 
He will be useful, (after considering.) Of 

Maclean we'll crave 
His banishment to cancel ; marking well 
How he receives it. This will serve to show 
The present bent and bearing of his mind. 

(pausing.) 
Were it not also well, that to our council 
He were invited, at a later hour, 
When of our purpose we shall be assured.'' 
Glen. Methinks it were. 
Loch. In, then ; now is our time. 
Ben. I'll follow thee, when I awhile have 
paced 
Yon lonely path, and thought upon thy coun- 
sel. 
[Exeunt Lochtarish and Glenfadden into the 
castle and Benlora opposite. 

Scene II.— an apartment in the cas- 
tle. 

Enter Morton and Rosa, speaking as they en- 
ter. 

Rosa. Speak with my Lady privately .'' 
Mor. Ay, please ye : 
Something I have to say, regards her nearly, 
And though I doubt not, madam, your attach- 
ment — 
Rosa. Good Morton, no apology : thy cau- 
tion 
Is prudent ; trust me not till thou hast proved 

me. 
But oh ! watch o'er thy Lady with an ej^e 
Of keen and guarded zeal! she is surround- 
ed — (looks cautiously.) 
Does no one hear us .' — O those baleful looks 
That, from beneath dark surly brows, by- 
stealth, 
Are darted on her by those stern Macleans ! 
Ay; and the gestures of those fearful men. 
As on the shore in savage groups they meet, 
Sending their loosen'd tartans to the wind. 
And tossing high their brawny arms, where 

oft. 
In vehement discourse, 1 have, of late, 
At distance mark'd them. Yes ; thou shakest 

thy head : 
Thou hast observed them too. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



465 



Mor. I have observed them oft. That calm 
Lochtarish, 
Calm as he is, the growing rancour fosters : 
For, fail the offspring of their chief, his sons 
Next in succession are. He hath his ends. 
For which he stirs their ancient hatred up ; 
And all too well his devilish pains succeed. 
Rosa. Too well indeed! the very bed-rid 
crones 
To whom my Lady sends, with kindly care, 
Her cheering cordials, — could'st thou have 

believ'd it .' 
Do mutter spells to fence from things unholy, 
And grumble, in a hollow smother'd voice, 
The name of Campbell, as unwillingly 
They stretch their wither'd hands to take her 

bounty. 
The wizards are in pay to rouse their fears 
With dismal tales of future ills foreseen, 
From Campbell and Maclean together join'd 
In hateful union. — Even the very children, 
Sporting the heath arnohg, when they dis- 
cover 
A loathsome toad or adder on their path, 
Crush it with stones, and, grinding wickedly' 
Their teeth, in puny spite, call it a Campbell. 
Benlora too, that savage gloomy man — 
Mor. Ay, evil is the day that brings him 
back : 
Unjustly by a Campbell hath he been. 
The peaceful treaty of the clans unheeded. 
In thraldom kept ; from which, but now es- 

cap'd. 
He like a furious tyger is enchafed. 
And thinks Argyll was privy to the wrong 
His vassal put upon liim. Well I know 
His bloody vengeful nature : and Maclean, 
Weak and unsteady, mov'd by ev'ry counsel. 
Brave in the field, but still in purpose timid, 
Oft times the instrument in wicked hands 
Of wrongs he would abhor, alas, I fear. 
Will ill defend the lovely spouse he swore 
To love and cherish. 

Kosa. Heavy steps approach : 
Hush ! see who comes upon us ! — sly Loch- 
tarish, 
.And his dark colleagues. — Wherefore come 
they hither .' (Morton retires.) 

Enter Lochtarish, Benlora, and Glenfad- 

DEN. 

Lock. We tlioiight, fair maid, to find the 

chieftain here. 
Rosa. He is in these apartments. 
Loch. Would it greatly 
Annoy your gentleness to tell his honour, 
We wait to speak with him upon affairs 
Of much concernment.'' 

Rosa. My service is not wanted ; to your 
wish, 
See, there he comes unwarn'd, and with him 

too 
His noble Lady. (retiring.) 

Loch. Ha ! there they come ! see how he 
hangs upon her, 
With boyish fondness ! 

Glen. Ah, the goodly creature ! 
58 



How fair she is I how winning ! — see that 

form ; 
Those limbs beneath their foldy vestments 

moving, 
As though in mountain clouds they robed 

were, 
And music of the air their motion measur'd. 
Loch. Ay, shrewd and crafty earl ! 'tis not 

for nought 
Thou hither senfst this jewel of thy race. 
A host of Campbells, each a chosen man, 
Could not enthral us, as, too soon I fear. 
This single Campbell will. Shrewd crafty 

foe ! 
Ben. Hell lend me aid, if Heaven deny its 

grace. 
But I will thwart him, crafty though he be ! 
Loch. But now for your petition : see we 

now 
How he receives your suit. 

Enter Maclean and Helen. 

Be?i. (eyeing her attentively as she enters.) 
A potent foe it is ; 
Ay, by my iaith, a fair and goodly creature ! 
Mac. Again good morrow to ye, gallant 
kinsmen : 
Come ye to say, I can with any favour 
The right good liking prove, and high regard 
I bear to you, who are my chiefest strength, — 
The pillars of my clan.'' 

Ben. Yes, we are come, Maclean, a boon to 

beg. 
Loch. A boon that, granted, will yourseli 

enrich. 
Mac. Myself enrich.' 
Loch. Yes; thereby wilt thou be 
One gallant man the richer. Hear us out. 

Allen of Dura, from his banishment 

Mac. False reaver ! name him not. — Is he 
returu'd.' . 
Dares he again set foot upon this isle .'' 
Be7i. Yes, chief; upon this isle set foot he 
hath : 
And on nor isle nor mainland doth there step 

A braver man than he. Lady, forgive 

me : 
The boldest Campbell never saw his back. 
Hel. Nay, good Benlora, ask not my for- 
giveness ; 
I love to hear tliee praise, with honest warmth, 
The valiant of thy name, which now is 
mine. 
Glen. Ha ! good Benlora !; — this is queenly, 
pride. (aside.) 

Madam, you honour us. 

HeL If so, small thanks be to ray cour- 
tesy. 
Sharing myself with pride the honest-fame 

Of every brave Maclean. I'll henceforth 

keep 
A proud account of all my gallant friends : 
And every valiant Campbell therein noted. 
On the opposing leaf, in letters fair. 
Shall with a brave Maclean be proudly 
match'd. 
(Benlora and Glenfadden bote in silence.) 



466 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Loch. Madam, our grateful duty waits upon 
you. {to Benlora.) 

Ben. (aside.) What think 1 of her ? 
Incomparable hypocrite ! 

Loch. But to our suit : for words of cour- 
tesy ■ 
It must not be forgotten. Chief, vouch- 
safe : 
Benlora here, who from his loathey prison, 
Which for your sake two years he hath en- 
dured, 
Begs earnestly this grace for him we men- 

tion'd, 
Allen of Dura. 

Kneel, man ; be more pressing, {to Benlora. j 
Ben. {to Lochtiarish.) Nay, by my fay ! if 
crouching pleases thee, 
Do it thyself 

{Going up proudly to Maclean.) 
Maclean ; thy father put into these hands 
The government and guidance of thy nonage. 
How I the trust fulfiU'd, this castle, strength- 

en'd 
With walls and added towers, and stor'd, be- 
sides, 
With arms and trophies, in rough warfare 

won 
From even the bravest of our western clans. 
Will testify. What 1 in recompense 
Have for my service earn'd, these galled 
wrists {huring his arm.) 

Do also testify. Such as I am, 

For an old friend I plainly beg this grace : 
Say if my boon be granted or denied. 

Mac. The man for whom thou plead'st is 
most unwortliy ; 
Tet let him safely from my shores depart; 
I harm him not. 

Ben. {indignantly.) My suit is then denied. 
{to Lochtarish and Glenfadden.) 
Go ye to Dura's Allen ; near the shore 
He harbours in his aged mothers cot ; 
Bid him upon the ocean drift again 
His shatter'd boat, and be a wanderer still. 
Hel. {eagerly.) His aged mother ! 

{to Maclean.) 
Oh ! and shall he go.^ ' 
No, no, he shall not ! on this day of joy. 
Wilt thou to me refuse it ^ 
{Hanging upon him loith looks of entreaty, till 
seeing him relent, she then turns joyfully to 
Benlora.) 
Bid your wanderer 

Safe with his aged mother still remain, — 
A banish'd man no more. 

Mac. This is not well ; but be it as thou 
wilt ; 
Thou hast prevail'd, my Helen. 

(Lochtarish and Glenfadden bowing low.) 
We thank thee. Lady. 

(Benlora bows slightly.) 
Mac. {to Benlora.) Then let thy friend re- 
mahi : he has my pardon. 

(Benlora hov^s again in silence.) 
Clear up thy brow, Benlora ; ho is pardon'd. 

{/jauscs.) 



We trust to meet you shortly in the hall ; 

And there, my friends, shall think our happy 
feast 

More happy for your presence — 

{with anxious courtesy, to Benlora.) 

Thy past services. 

Which great and many are, my brave Benlora, 

Shall be remember'd well. Thou hast my 
honour. 

And high regard. 

Hel. And mine to boot, good kinsman, if 
the value 

You put upon them makes them worth the 
having. 
Ben. {bows sullenly retiring and aside.) 
Good kinsman ! good Benlora! gra- 
cious words 

From this most high and potent dame, vouch- 
safed 

To one so poor and humble as myself 

[Exit. 
Loch, {to Glenfadden.) But thou tbrget- 

test 

Glen, {to Lochtarish.) No ; I'll stay be- 
hind. 

And move Maclean to join our nightly meet- 
ing. 

Midnight the hour when you desire his pres- 
ence ? 
Loch. Yes, even so : then will we be pre- 
pared. [Exit. 
Glen, {to Maclean.) Chieftain, I would 
some words of privacy 

Speak with you, should your leisure now 
permit. 
Mac. Come to my closet then, I'll hear 
thee gladly. 

[Exeunt Maclean and Glenfadden. 
Hel. {to Rosa, who now comes forward.) 
Where hast thou been, my Rosa? 
with my boy ? 

Have they with wild flowers deck'd his cra- 
dle round .' 

And peeps he through them like a little nest- 
ling — 

A little heath-cock broken from Its shell. 

That through the bloom puts forth its tender 
beak. 

As steals some rustling footstep on his nest ? 

Come, let me go, and look upon him. Soon, 

Ere two months more go by, he'll look again 

In answer to my looks, as though he knew 

The wistful face that looks so soft upon him, 

And smiles so dearly, is his mother's. 
Think'st thou 

He'll soon give heed and notice to my love .'' 
Rosa. I doubt it not : he is a lively infant, 

And moves liis little limbs with vigour, 
spreading 

His fingers forth, as if in time they would 

A good claymore clencii bravel}'. 

Hel. A good claymore clencli bravely ! — 
O, to see him 

A man! — a valiant youth ! — a noble chief- 
tain ! 

And laying on his plaided shoulder, thus, 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



467 



A mother's hand, say proudly, " this is 

mine !" 
I shall not then a lonely stranger be 
Midst those who bless me not. I shall not 

then — 
But silent be my tongue. (weeps.) 

Rosa. Dear madam, still in hope look for- 
ward cheerly. 

(Morton comes foncard.) 
And here is Morton, with some tidings for 

you: 
God grant they comfort you ! — I must with- 
draw : 
His wary faithfulness mistrusts my love, 
But 1 am not offended. (offering to retire.) 

Hel. Nay, remain. 
Say what thou hast to say, my worthy Mor- 
ton, 
For Rosa is as faithful as thyself. 

Mor. This morning, Lady, 'mongstthe far- 
ther cliffs, 
Drest like a fisher peasant, did I see 
The Lord of Lome, your brother. 

Hel. Ha! say'st thou. 
The Lord of Lome, my brother .' — thou'rt de- 
ceived. 
Mor. No, no ; in vain his sordid garb con- 
ceal'd him : 
His noble form and stately step I knew 
Before he spoke. 

Hel. He spoke to thee .' 
Mor. He did. 
Hel. Was he alone ? 
Mor. He was ; but, near at band. 
Another stranger, noble as himself. 
And in like garb disguised, amongst the rocks 
I mark'd, though he advanced not. 

Hel. Alas, alas, my brother ' why is this .' 
He spoke to thee, thou say'st — I mean my 

brother : 
What did he say .' 
He earnestly entreats 
To see you privately ; and bids you say 
When this may be. Meantime, he lies con- 

ceal'd 
Where I may call him forth at your command. 
Hel. O, why disguised ^ — think'st thou he 

is not safe .' 
Mor. Safe in his hiding-place he is ': but 
yet 
The sooner he shall leave this coast, the bet- 
ter. 
Hel. To see him thus ! — O, how I am beset ; 
Tell him at twilight, in my nurse's cham- 
ber, 
I will receive him. But be sure thou add, 
Himself alone will 1 receive — alone — 
With no companion must he come. Forget 

not 
To say, that I entreat it earnestly. 
Mor. I will remember this. 
Hd. Go to him quickly, then ; and, till the 
hour, 
Still do. tliou hover near them. Watch his 

haunt, 
Lest some rude fishermen or surly hind 



Surprise him. Go thou quickly. O, be pru- 
dent ! 
And be not for a moment off the watch. 
Mor. Madam, I will obey you : trust me 
well. [Exit. 

Hel. {much disturbed.) My brother on the 
coast ; and wifh him too. 
As well I guess, the man I must not see ! 
Rosa. Mean you the brave sir Hubert ? 
Hel. Yes, my Rosa. 
My noble brother in his powerful self 
So strong in virtue stands, he thinks full 

surely 
The daughter of his sire no weakness hath, 
And wists not how a simple heart must strug- 
gle 
To be what it would be — what it must be — 
Ay, and, so aid me, -Heaven ! what it shall 
be. 
Rosa. And Heaven will aid you, madam, 
doubt it not. 
Though on this subject still you have represt 
All communing, yet, ne'ertheless, I well 
Have mark'd your noble striving, and revered 
Your silent inward warfare, bravely held ; 
In this more pressing combat firm and val- 
iant, 
As is your noble brother in the field. 

Hel. 1 thank thee, gentle Rosa ; thou art 
kind — 
I should be franker with thee ; but I know 

not — 
Something restrains me here. 

(laying her hand on her heart.) 
I love and trust thee ; 

And on thy breast I'll weep when I am sad ; 
But ask not why I weep. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — an apartment almost 
dark; the door of an inner cham- 
ber, standing a little ajar. 

Enter John of Lorne, and Sir Hubert de 
Grey, disguised as peasants. 

De Grey. Nay, stop, I pray ; advance we 

not too far .' 
Lorne. Morion liath bid us in this place to 
wait. 
The nurse's chamber is adjoining to it ; 
And, till her light within give notice, here 
Thou may 'st remain: when I am call d, thou'lt 
leave me. 
De Grey. Till thou art call'd ! and may I 
stay to hear 
The sweetness of her voice — her footsteps 

sound: — 
Perhaps snatch in the torch's hasty light 
One momentary vision of that form — 
The form that hath to me of earthly make 
No fellow .'' may it be without transgression .'' 
Lome. Why should'st thou not .' De Grey, 
thou art too fearful ; 



463 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Here art thou come with no dishonest will ; 
And well she knows thine honour. Her 

commands, 
Though we must yield to them, capricious 

seem ; 
Seeing thou art with me," too nicely scrupu- 
lous ; 
And therefore need no farther be obey'd 
Tlian needs must be. She puts thee not on 

honour. 
Were I so used — 

De Grey. 'Spite of thy pride, would'stthou 
Revere her still the more. — O, no, brave 

Lome ! 
I blame her not. When she, a willing vic- 
tim, 
To spare the blood of two contending clans, 
Against my faithful love her suffrage gave, 
I blest her -. and the deep but chasten'd sor- 
row 
With which she bade me — Oh ! that word ! 

farewell. 
Is treasured in my bosom as its share 
Of all that eartlily love hath power to give. 
It came from Helen, and, from her received. 
Shall not be worn with thankless dull repin- 
ing. 
Lome. A noble heart thou hast : such man- 
ly meekness 
Becomes thy generous nature. But for me, 
More fierce and wilful, sorely was I chafed 
To see thy faithful heart robb'tl of its hope, 
All for the propping up a hollow peace 
Between two warlike clans, who will, as long- 
As bagpipes sound, and blades flash to the 

sun, 
Delighting in the noble sport of war, 
Some fierce opponents find. What doth it 

boot. 
If men in fields must fight, and blood be shed. 
What clans are in the ceaseless strife opposed ? 
De Grey. Ah, John of Lome ! too keenly 
is thy soul 
To war inclin'd — to wasteful, ruthless war. 
Lome. The warlike minstrel's rousing lay 
tliou lov'st : 
Shall bards i' the hall sing of our fathers' 

deeds 
To lull their sons to sleep .'' vain simple wish ! 
I love to hear the sound of holy bell, 
And peaceful men their praises lift to heaven : 
I love to see around their blazing fire 
The peasant and his cheerful family sit. 
Eating their fearless meal. But when the 

roar 
Of battle rises, and the closing clans. 
Darkening the sun gleam'd heath, in dread 

affray 
Are mingled; blade with blade, and limb 

with limb, 
Nerve-strain'd, inferrible strength; yea, soul 

with soul 
Nobly contending ; who would raise alofl 
The interdicting hand ? and say, " Be still'd." 
If this in mo be sin, may Heaven forgive me ! 
That being am not I . 
De Grey. In very deed 



Tliis is thy sin ; and of thy manly nature 
The only blemish worthy of that name. 
More peaceful be, and thou wilt be more no- 
ble. 
Lome. Well, here we will not wrangle for 
the point. 
None in the embattled field who have beheld 
Hubert de Grey in mailed hauberk fight. 
Will guess how much that knight in peace de- 
lights. 
Still burns my heart that such a man as thou 
Wast for this weak, unsteady, poor Mac- 
lean 

De Grey. Nay, with contempt, I pray thee, 
name him not. 
Her husband, and despised ! O, no, no, no ! 
All that pertains to her, even from that hour, 
Honored and sacred is. 

Lome. Thou generous heart ! more noble 
than myself! 
I will not grieve thep. — I'll to Helen go, 
With every look and word that might betray 
Indignant thoughts, or wound her gentle 

spirit, 
Strictly suppress'd : and to her ear will give 
Thy generous greetings, and thy manly 

words 
Of cheering comfort ; — all most faithfully 
Shall be remembered, 

De Grey. Ay, and my request. 
Lome. To see the child r 
De Grey. Even so: to look upon it; 
Upon the thing that is of her ; this bud — 
This seedling of a flower so exquisite. 

{light is seen within.) 
Ha I light is in the chamber ! moves the 

door .' 
Some one approaches. O ! but for a moment 
Let me behind thy friendly tartans be. 
And snatch one glance of what that light will 

give. 
{Conceals himself behind Lome, Helen ap- 
pears, bearing a lamp, which she sets down 
as she advances.) 
Her form — her motion — yea, that mantled 

arm, 
Pressed closely to her breast, as she was wont 
When chilly winds assailed. — The face — O, 

woe is me ! 
It was not then so pale. 

Lome, (to him, in a loto voice.) Begone : be- 
gone. 
De Grey. Blest vision, I have seen thee ! 
fare thee well ! [Exit in haste. 

Hel. {coming forward, alarmed,) What 
sound is that of steps that hasten 
from us .' 
Is Morton on the watch ^ 

Lome. Fear nothing ; faithful Morton is at 
hand : 
The steps thou heard'st were friendly. 

Hel. {embracing Lome.) My brother ! 
meet we thus, — disguised, by stealth? 
Is tills like peace .'' How is my noble father ? 
Hath any ill befallen ? 

Lome. Argyll is well ; 
And nothing ill, my sister, hath befallen. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



469 



If thou art well and happy. 
Hel. Speakest thou truly .-" 
Why art thou come ? why thus upon our 
coast ? 

take it not unkindly that I say, 
*' Why art thou come ? " 

Lome. Near to the opposite shore, 
With no design, but on a lengthened chase, 
A lusty deer pursuing from the hills 
Of Morven, where Sir Hubert and myself 
Guests of the social lord two days had been, 
We found us ; when a sudden strong desire 
To look upon the castle of Maclean, 
Seen from the coast, our eager fancy seiz'd; 
And that indulged, forthwith we did agree 
The frith to cross, and to its chief and dame 
A ha'Bty visit make. But as our boat 
Lay waiting to receive us, warned by one 
Whom well I knew, the vassal of a friend, 
Whose word I could not doubt, that jealous 

rancor. 
Stirred up amongst the vassals of Maclean, 
Who in their savagq fury had been heard 
To utter threats against thy innocent self, 
Made it unsafe in open guise to venture ; 
Here in this garb we are to learn in secret 
The state in which thou art. — How is it, then .' 
Morton's report has added to my fears : 
All is not well with thee. 
Hcl. No, all is well. 

Lome. A cold constrained voice that an- 
swer gave. 
All is not well, — Maclean — dares he neglect 
thee .'' 
HeL Nay, wrong him not; kind and 
affectionate 
He still remains. 

Lome. But it is said, his vassals with vile 
names 
Have dared to name thee, even in open clan, 
And have remained unpunished. Is it so? 
(pauses.) All is not well. 
Het. Have I not said it is .' 
Lome. Ah! dost thou thus return a broth- 
er's love 
With cold reserve .' — speak to me, my Helen ! 
Speak as a sister should. — Have they insulted 

thee .' 
Has any wrong — my heart within me burns 
If I but think upon it. — Answer truly. 

Hel. What, am I questioned then ? think- 
est thou to find me 
Like the spoiled heiress of some lowland 

Lord, 
Peevish and dainty ; who, with scorn regard- 
ing 
The ruder home she is by marriage placed in. 
Still holds herself an alien from its interest, 
With poor repining, losing every sense 
Of what she is, in what she has been .' No. — 

1 love thee, Lome ; 1 love my father's house : 
The meanest cur that round lais threshold 

barks. 
Is in my memory as some kindred thing : 
Yet take it not unkindly when I say, 
The lady of Maclean no grievance hath 
To tell the Lord of Lome . 



Lome. And has the vow, 
Constrained, unblest, and joyless as it wns. 
Which gave thee to a Lord unworthy of tliee, 
Placed thee beyond the reach of kindred 

ties — 
The warmth of blood to blood — the sure af- 
fection 
That nature gives to all — a brother's love .' 
No, by all sacred things ! here is thy hold : 
Here is thy true, unshaken, native stay : 
One that shall fail thee never, though, the 

while, 
A faithless, wavering, intervening band 
Seems to divide thee from it. 
{Grasping her hand vehemently, as if lie voultl 
lead her away.) 
Hcl. What dost thou mean .' what violent 

grasp is this ? 
Comest thou to lead me from my husband's 

house. 
Beneath the shade of night, with culprit's 

stealth .' 
Lome. No, daughter of Argyll ; when 

John of Lome 
Shall come to lead thee from these linted 

walls 
Back to thy native home, — with culprit's 

stealth. 
Beneath the shades of night, it shall not be. 
With half our western warriors at his back 
He'll proudly come. Thy listening timid 

chief 
Shall hear our martial steps upon his heath. 
With heavy measured fall, send, beat by beat 
From the far smitten earth a sullen sound, 
Like deep-dell'd forests groaning to the 

strokes 
Of lusty wood-men. On the watch-tower's 

height, 
His straining eye shall mark our sheathlcss 

swords 
From rank to rank their lengthened blaze 

emit, 
Like streams of shivering light in haste to 

change. 
Upon the northern firmament. — By stealth ? 
No ! not by stealth 1 — believe me, not by 

stealth 
Shalt thou these portals pass. 
Hel. Them have I entered 
The pledge of peace : and here my place I'll 

hold 
As dame and mistress of the warlike clan 
Who yield obedience to their chief, my lord ; 
And whatsoe'er their will to me may bear. 
Of good or ill, so will I hold me ever. 
Yea, did the Lord of Lome, dear as he is, 
With all the warlike Campbells at his back 
Here hostile entrance threaten; on these 

walls, 
Failing the strength that might defend tliem 

better, 
I would myself, while t»y my side in arms 
One valiant clan's-man stood, against his 

powers. 
To the last push, with desperate opposition, 
This castle hold. 



47U 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Lome. And would'st thou so ? so firm and 
valiant art tliou ? 
Forgive me, noble creature ! — oh ! the fate — 
Tiio v.'ayvvard fate tiiat binds thy generous 

soul 
To poor unsteady weakness ! 

lid. Speakest thou thus ? 
Thus pressing still upon the galled spot.-' 
Tliou dealest unkindly with me. Yes, ray 

brother, 
Unkindly and unwisely. Wherefore hast 

thou 
Brought to this coast the man thou knowest 

well 
I ought not in mysterious guise to see .-' 
And he himself — seeks he again to move 
The hapless weakness [ have strove to con- 
quer .•' 
I thought him generous. 

Lome. So tliink him still. 
His wishes tend not to disturb thy peace : 
Far other are his thoughts — He bids me tell 

thee, 
To cheer thy gentle heart, nor think of him, 
As one who will in vain and stubborn grief 
His ruin'd bliss lament, — he bids me say 
That he will even strive, if it be possible. 
Amongst the maidens of his land to seek 
Some faint resemblance of the good he lost, 
That thou mayest hear of him with less re- 
gret, 
As one by holy bands link'd to his kind. 
He bids me say, should ever child of his 
And child of thine— but liere his quivering 

hp 
And starting tears spoke what he could not 
speak. 
Hd. O, noble generous heart! and does 
h e offer 
Such cheering manly comfort .' Heaven pro- 
tect. 
And guide, and bless him ! on his noble head 
Such prosperous bliss be pour'd,that, hearing 

of it. 
Shall through the gloom of my untoward 

state 
Like gleams of sun -shine break, that from 

afar 
Look o'er the dull dun heath. 

Lome. But one request 

Hd. Ha ! makes he one .' 
Lome. It is to see thy child. 
Hd. To see my child I will he indeed re- 
gard it .'' 
Shall it be blessed by him ? 

Enter Morton in haste. 
Mor. Conceal yourself, my Lord, or by 
this passage {polnUng off the stage.) 
The nearest postern gain : 1 hear the sound 
Of heavy steps at hand, and voices stern. 
HeL O fly, my brotiicr ! Morton will 
conduct thee, (to Morton.) Where 
is Sir Hubert ? 
Mor. Safe he is without. 
Hd. Heaven keep liim so ! (to Lome.) O 
leave me ! 1, the while, 



Will in, and, with mine infant in mine 

arms. 
Meet thee again, ere thou departest. — Fly ! 

fly! 
[ExETiNT, Helen into the chamber , first putting 
out the lavip, and Lome and Morton by a 
side passage. 

Scene II, — a cave, lighted by flam- 
ing BRANDS STUCK ALOFT ON ITS RUG- 
GED SIDES, AND SHEDDING A FIERCE 
GLARING LIGHT DOWN UPON THE OB- 
JECTS BELOW. 

LocHTARisH, Benlora, Glenfadden, with 
several of the chief vassals of Maclean, are 
discovered in a recess of the rocks, in earnest 
discourse , advancing slowly. 

Loch. And thus, you see, by strong neces- 
sity, 
We are compelled to this. 

]si Vas. Perhaps thou'rt right. 
Loch. Say'stlhou perhaps ? dost thou not 
. plainly see 
That ne'er a man amongst us can securely 
His lands possess, or say, ' my house is mine,' 
While, under tutorage of proud Argyll, 
This beauteous sorceress our besotted chief 
By soft enchantment holds .' my brave Gle- 

nore, 
{Laying his hand on First Vassal.) 
What are thy good deserts, tliat may uphold 

thee 
In favor with a Campbell ? — Duncan's blood. 
Slain in his boat, with all its dashing oars 
Skirting our shore, while that his vaunting 

piper 
The Campbell's triumph played .' will this 

speak for thee .'' 

{Turning to Second Vassal.^ 
And Thona, what good merit pleadest thou ^ 
The coal-black steed of Clone, thy nioon-light 

plunder, 
Ta'en from the spiteful laird, will he, good 

sootii ! 
Neigh favour on thee .' 

(To Third Vassal.) And my valiant Fallen, 
Betliink thee v;ell if fair-hair 'd Flora's cries, 
Whom from her native bower by force thou 

took'st, 
Will plead for thee. — And say ye still per- 
haps — 
Perhaps there is necessity .' 

1st Vas. Strong should it be, Lochtarish .' 

for the act is fell, and cruel, thou 

would'st push us to. 
Glen, {to 1st Vassal.) Ha, man of mercy I 

are thy lily hands 
From bloody taint unstamed .' what sights 

were those 
Thou look'dst upon in Brunock's burning 

tower, 
When infants through the flames their wail- 

ings sent, 
And )'et unaided perished. 

Loch, {soothingly.) Tush, Glenfadden 1 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



471 



Too hasty art thou, (to the Vassals.^ Ye will 

sa)', belike, 
' Our safety — our existence did demand 
Utter extinction of that hold of foes.' 
And well ye may. — A like necessity 
Compels us now, and yet ye hesitate. 

Glen. Our sighted seers the funeral lights 
have seen, 
Not moving onward in the wonted path 
On which by friends the peaceful dead are 

borne, 
But hovering o'er the heath like countless 

stars. 
Spent and extinguish'd on the very spot 
Where first they twinkled. This too well 

foreshows 
Interment of the slain, whose bloody graves 
Of the same mould are made on which they 
fell. 
2d Vas. Ha! so indeed! some awful tem- 
pest gathers. 
Isl Vas. What sighted man hath seen it.' 
Glen. He whose eye 
Can see on northern waves the foundering 

bark. 
With all her shrieking crew, sink to the deep. 
While yet, with gentle winds, on dimpling 

surge 
She sails from port in all her gallant trim : 
John of the isle hath seen it. 

Jill, {starting hack.) Then hangs some evil 

over us. 
Glen. Know ye not 
The mermaid hath been heard upon bur rocks .'' 
Jill, (still more alarmed.) Ha ! when .' 
Glen. Last night, upon the rugged crag 
That lifts its dark head through the cloudy 

smoke 
Of dashing billows, near the western cliff. 
Sweetly, but sadly, o'er the stilly deep 
The passing sound was borne. I need not 

say 
How fatal to our clan that boding sound 
Hath ever been. 

3rf Vas. In faith thou makest me quake. 
2d Vas. Some fearful thing hangs o'er us — 
1st Vas. If 'tis fated 
Our clan before our ancient foe should fall, 
Can we Heaven's will prevent? why should 

we then 
The Campbells' wrath provoke .' 

Ben. (stepping up fiercely to First Vassal.) 
Heaven's will prevent ! — the Campbells' ire 

provoke ! 
Is such base tameness uttered by the son 
Of one, who wo.uld into the fiery pit 
Of damned fiends have leapt, so that his grasp 
Might pull a Campbell with him.' bastard 

blood ! 
Thy father spoke not thus. 

Loch, (soothingly.) Nay, brave Benlora: 
He means not as thou thinkest. 

Ben. If Heaven decrees 
Slaughter and ruin for us, come it then ! 
But let our enemies, close" grappled to us, 
In deadly strife, their ruin join with ours. 
Let corse to corse, upon the blood)' heath, 



Maclean and Camp'oell, stiffening side by side, 
With all the gnashing ecstasy of hate 
Upon their ghastly visages imprest, 
Lie horribly ! — For every widow's tear 
Shed in our clan let matron Campbells howl. 

Loch. Indeed, my friends, although too 
much in ire, 
Benlora wisely speaks. — Shall we in truth 
Wait for our ruin from a'crafty foe. 
Who here maintains this keenly watchful spy 
In gentle kindness masked .'' 

Glen. Nor need we ft?'ar, 
As good Lochtarish hath already urged. 
Her death will rouse Argyll. It will be deem- 
ed. 
As we shall grace it with all good respect 
Of funeral pomp, a natural visitation. 

Loch. Ay, and besides, we'll swear upon 
the book. 
And truly swear, if we are called upon, 
We have not shed her blood. 

Ben. I like not tliis. 
If ye her life will take, in open day 
Let her a public sacrifice be made. 
Let tlie loud trumpet far and near proclaim 
Our bloody feast, and at the rousing sound 
Let every clansman of the hated name 

His vengeful weapon clench 

I like it not, Lochtarish. What we do, 

Let it be boldly done. — Why should we slay 

her .' 
Let her in shame be from the castle sent ; 
Which to her haughty sire will do, I \veen, 
Far more despite than taking of her life. — 
A feeble woman's life ! — I like it not. (turn- 
ing and walking angrily to a distance.) 

Loch, (to Glenfadden.) Go to him, friend, 
and soothe him to our purpose. 
The fiery fool ! how madly wild he is ! 
(Glenfadden goes and speaks to Benlora, ?c/u7c 

Lochtarish speaks to the Vassals on thefront.) 

Loch. My friends, why on each other look 
ye thus 
Ingloomj' silence? freely speak your thoughts. 
Mine have I freely spoken : that advising 
Which for the good — nay, I must say exist- 
ence. 
Of this our ancient clan most needful is. 
When did Lochtarish ever for himself 
A separate 'vantage seek, in which t!ie clan 
At large partook not ? am I doubted now ? 

2d Vas. No, nothing do we doubt thy pub- 
lic zeal. 

Loch. Then is my long experience o' the 
sudden 
To childish folly turned ? Think'st thou, good 

Tliona, 
We should beneath this artful mistress live, 
Hushed in deceitful peace, till Johnof Lorno, 
For whom the office of a treacherouL? spy 
She doth right slyly manage, with his pov/ers 
Shall come upon us? once ye would have 

spurned 
At thoughts so base ; but now, Vwhcn forth I 

stand 
To do what vengeance, safety, nay, e.-dstence 
All loudly call for ; even as "though already 



472 



THK FAMILY LEGEND. 



The enemy's baleful influence hung o'er ye, 

Like quelled and passive men ye silent stand. 

ht Vas. {roused.) Nay, cease, Lochtarish ! 

Quell'd and passive men thou know'st we 

are not. 

Lock. Yet a vvoman's life, 

And that a treacherous woman, moves ye 

thus. 
Bold as your threats of dark revenge have 

been, 
A strong decisive deed appals ye now, 
Our chieftain's feeble undetermined spirit 
Lifects you all : ye dare not stand by me. 
AU. We dare not, sayest thou .'' 
Loch. Dare not, will I say ! 
Well spoke the jeering Camerons, I trow, 
As past their fishing boats our vessel steer'd, 
When witli push'd lip, and finger pointing 

thus, 
They call'd our crew the Campbell-cow'd 
Macleans. 
ALL. (rouiedjlercely.) The Campbell-cow'd 

Macleans ! 
2d Vds. Iniernal devils ! 
Dare they to call us so .'' 

Loch. Ay, by my truth ! 
Nor think tliat from the Camerons alone 
Ye will sucli greeting have, if back ye shrink, 
And stand not by me now. 
ALL. (eugerlij.) We'll stand ! we'll stand ! 
2d Vas. Tempt us no more : — there's ne'er 
a man of us 
That will not back thee boldly. 

Loch. Ay, indeed ! 
Now are ye men I — give me your hands to this. 

{ihc]] aLL give kim their hands.) 
Now am 1 satisfied, {looking off.) The chief 

approaches. 
Ye know full well the spirit of the man 
That we must deal withal! ; therefore be bold. 
AU. Mistrust us not. 

Enter Maclean, who advances to the centre, 
while Lochtarish, Benlora, Glenfad- 
DEN, and all the other vassals gather round 
him with stern determined looks. A pause ; 
Maclean eyeing them all round with inquisi- 
tive linxiety. 

Mac. A goodly meeting at this hour con- 
vened, (a sullen pause.) 
Benlora ; Thona ; Allen of Glenore ; 
And all of you, our first and bravest kinsmen; 
What mystery in this sullen silence is ? 
Hangs any threatened evil o'er the clan.' 
Be7i. Yes, chieftain; evil that dotli make 
the blood 
Within your grey-haired warriors' veins to 

burn, 
\nd their brogucd feet to spurn the ground 
that bears them. 
Loch. Evil that soon will wrap your tower 
in flames, 
four ditches fill with blood, and carrion birds 
Glut with the butchered corses of your slain. 
Gleji. Ay, evil that dotli make the hoary 
locks 



Of sighted men around their age-worn scalps 
Like quickened points of crackling flame to 

rise ; 
Their teeth to grind, and strained eye-balls 

roll 
In fitful frenzy, at the horrid things. 
In terrible array, before them raised. 

1st Vas. The mermaid hath been heard up- 
on our rocks : 
The fatal song of waves. 

Gle/i. The northern deep 
Is heard with distant moanings from our coast. 
Uttering the dismal bodeful sounds of death. 
2d Vas. The funeral lights have shone upon 
our heath, 
Marking in countless groups the heaps of 
thousands. 
Ben. Yea, chief; and sounds like to thy 
father's voice 
Have from the sacred mould wherein he lies. 
At dead of night, by wakeful men been heard 
Three times distinctly, {to Glenfadden.) 
Sayd'st thou not thrice .■' 

Glen. Yes; three times heard distinctly. 
Mac. Ye much amaze me, friends. — Such 

things have been. 
Loch. Yea, chief; and think'st thou we 
may lightly deem 
Of coming ills, by signs like these forewarned ? 
Mac. Then an it be, high Heaven have 

mercy on us ! 
Loch, {in a solemn voice.) Thyself have 

mercy on us ! 
Mac. How is this .' 
Your words confuse and stun me. — Have I 

power 
To ward this evil off" ! 

All. Thou hast ! thou hast ! • 
Mac. Then God to me show mercy in my 
need. 
As I will do for you and for my clan 
Whate'er my slender power enables me. 
All. Amen ! and swear to it. 
Mac. {starting back.) What words are these, 
With such wild fierceness uttered ? name the 

thing 
That ye would have me do. 

Ben. (stepping forward.) Ay, we will name 
'it. 
Helen the Campbell, fostered in your bosom, 
A serpent is, who wears a hidden sting 
For thee and all thy name ; the oath-bound 

spy 

Of dark Argyll, our foe ; the baleful plague 
To which ill omened sounds and warnings 

point, 
As that on which existence or extinction — 
The name and being of our clan depend ; 
A. witch of deep seduction. — Cast her forth. 
The strange, unnatural union of two bloods 
Adverse and hostile, most abhorred is. 
The heart of every warrior of your name 
Rises against it. Yea, the grave calls out. 
And says it may not be. — Nay, shrink not, 

chief. 
When I again repeat it ; — cast her off". 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



473 



Mac. Art thou a man ? and bid'st me cast 
her off, 
Bound as I am by sacred holy ties ? 

iMch. Bound as thou art by that which thou 
regardest 
As sacred holy ties ; what tie so sacred 
As those that to his name and kindred vas- 
sals 
The noble chieftain bind ? if ties there be 
To these opposed, although a saint from heav- 
en 
Had bless'd them o'er the cross'd and holy 

things, 
They are annulled and broken. 

Ben. Ay, Lochtarish ; 
Sound doctrine hast thou uttered. Such the 

creed 
Of ancient warriors was, and such the creed 
That we their sons will with our swords main- 
tain, 
{Draioing his stcord fiercely, whilst the restfol- 
loxo his example.) 

Mac. Ye much confound me with your vio- 
lent words. 
I can in battle strive, as well ye know ; 
But how to strire with you, ye violent men, 
My spirit knows not. 
Loch. Decide — decide, Maclean; the choice 
is thine 
To be our chieftain, leading forth thy bands, 
As heretofore thy valiant father did. 
Against our ancient foe, or be the husband. 
Despised, forsaken, curst, of her thou prizest 
More than thy clan and kindred. 

Glen. Make thy choice. 
Benlora, wont in better times, to lead us 
Against the Campbells, with a chieftain's 

power, 
Shall, with the first blast of his warlike horn, 
If so he wills it, round his standard gather 
Thy roused and valiant vassals to a man. 
Mac. {greatly startled.) Ha,goyourthoughts 
to this ? desert me so ? 
My vassals so desert me .' 

Loch. Ay, by my faith our very women too : 
And in your hall remain, to serve your state, 
Nor child nor aged crone. 

Mac. {after great agitation.) Decide, and 

cast her off ! — how far the thoughts 

To which these words ye yoke, may go, I 

guess not. 
{eagerly.) They reach not to her life ? {pauses 
and looks at them anxiously, hut they 
are silent.) 
Oh, oh ! oh, oh ! that stern and dreadful si- 
lence ! 
Loch. We will not shed her blood. 
Mac. Then ye will spare her. 
Loch. Commit her to our keeping: ask us 
not 
How we shall deal with her. 

Mac. Some fearful mystery is in your words, 
Which covers cruel things. O woe the day, 
That I on this astounding ridge am poised ! 
On every side a fearful ruin yawns. 
{A Toicc heard without, uttering wild incoherent 
words, mixed with shrieks of horror.) 
59 



What frenzied voice is that ? 

Enter 4th Vassal, as if terribly frightened. 

Loch, {to 4th Vassal.) What brings thee 

hither ? 
4</t Vas. He fixes wildly on the gloomy 
void 
His starting eye-balls, bent on fearful sights, 
That makes the sinews of his aged limbs 
In agony to quiver 

Loch. Who did'st thou say .' 
Ath Vas. John of the isle, the sighted awful 
man. 
Go, see yourselves : i' the'outer cave he is. 
Entranced he stands; arrested on his way 
By horrid visions, as he hurried hither 
Inquiring for the chief. 

{a voice heard loithout, as before?) 
Loch. Hark ! hark, again ! dread powers 
are dealing with him. 
Come, chieftain — come and see the awful 

man. 
If heaven or hell have power to move thy 

will, 
Thou canst not now withstand us. 
{pauses.) Hear'st thou not ? 
And motionless .' 

Mac. I am beset and stunn'd, 
And every sense bewilder'd. Violent men I 
If ye unto this fearful pitch are bent, — 
When such necessity is prest upon me, 
What doth avail resistance .' woe the day ! 
E'en lead me where ye will. 
[Exit Maclean, exhausted and trembling, lean- 
incr on Lochtarish, and followed by Benlora 
and Glenfadden and Vassals — two Vassals 
remain. 

\st Vas. {looJcing after Maclea.n.) Ay, there 
he goes; so spent, and scared,. and 
feeble ! 
Without a prophet's skill, we may foretel, 
John of the isle, by sly Lochtarish taught, 
Will work him soon to be an oath-bound 

wretch 
To this Iheir fell design. Are all thing's 
ready .' 
2d Vas. All is in readiness. 
1st Vas. When ebbs the tide ? 
2d Vas. At early dawn, when in the narrow 
creek, 
Near to the castle, with our trusty mates. 
Our boat must be in waiting to receive her. 
1st Vas. The time so soon ! alas, so young 
and fair 
That slov/ and dismal death ! to be at once 
Plunged in the closing deep many have suf- 
fered, 
But to sit waiting on a lonely rock 
For the approaching tide to throttle her — 
But that she is a Campbell, I could weep. 
2d Vas. Weep, fool 1 think soon how we'll 
to war again 
With our old enemy, and in the field 
Our good claymores reek with their hated 

blood : 
Think upon this, and change thy tears to joy. 

[Exeunt. 



474 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Scene III. — the bed chamber of mac- 
lean. 

Enter Maclean, followed by Helen. 

Hel. Ah ! wlierefore art thou so disturbed ? 
the night 
Is almost spent : the morn will break ere 

long, 
And rest hast thou had none. Goto thy bed : 
I ])ray thee go. 

Mac. I cannot : urge me not. 

Hel. Nay, try to rest : I'll sit and watch by 

thee. 
Mac. Thou'lt sil and watch I O woe betide 
the hour ! 
And who will watch for thee ? 

Hel. And why for me .' 
Can any harm approach .■' when thou art 

near, 
Or sleeping or awake, I am secure. 
Mac. (pacing to and fro distractedly.) O 

God ! O God ! 
Hel. Those exclamations I {going up to him 
while he avoid? her.) Turn'st thou 
from me thus .-* 
Have I offended .' dost thou doubt my faith .' 

Hath any jealous thought 1 freely own 

Love did not make nie thine: but, being thine, 
To no love-wedded dame, bound in the ties 
Of dearest sympathy, will I in duly — 
In steady, willing, cheerful duty yield. 
Yea, and though here no thrilling rapture 

be, 
I look to spend with thee, by habit foster'd, 
The evening of my days in true affection. 

Mac. The evening of thy days ! alas, alas ! 

Would heaven had so decreed it ! (pulling 

his handfrovi hers.) Grasp me not ! 

It is a fiend thou cling'st to. (a knock at the 

door.) Power of heaven I 
Are they already at the chamber door ! 
Hel. Are those who knock without unwel- 
come .'' — hush ! 
Withdraw thyself, and I will open to them. 
{goes to the door.) 
Mac. O go not! go not! 
(Runs after her to draw her hack, when a Vas- 
sal, rushing from behind the bed, lays hold 
of him.) 
Vas. Art thou not sworn to us : where is 

thy faith .? 
Mac. I know, I know ! the bands of hell 
have bound me. 
O fiends ! ye' ve made of me — what words can 

speak 
The hateful wretch I am ! hark, hark ! she 

cries ! 
She shrieks and calls on me! 
(Helen's cries heard without, first near and 
distinct, afterwards more and more distant 
as they hear her aicay ; while the Vassal 
leads Maclean forcibly off by the opposite 
side, he breaks from him, and hastens to- 
wards that by tchich Helen went out.) 
Vas. Thou art too strong for me. Do as 
thou wilt ; 



But if thou bring'st her back, even from that 
moment 

Benlora is our leader, and thyself, 

The Campbell's husband, chieflain and Mac- 
lean 

No more shalt be. We've sworn as well as 
thou. 

(Maclean stops irresolutely, and then suffers 
the Vassal to lead him off.) 



ACT III. 



Scene I- — a small island, composed 

OF A RUGGED CRAGGY ROCK IN FRONT, 
AND THE SEA IN THE DISTANCE. 

Enter two Vassals, dragging in Helen, as if 
just come out of their boat. 

Hel. O, why is this ? speak, gloomy, ruth- 
less men ! 
Our voyage ends not here .' 

1st Vas. It does : and now, 
Helen, the Campbell, fare thee — fare thee 
well ! 
2d Fas. Helen, the Campbell, thy last 
greeting take 
From mortal thing. 

Hel. What ! leave me on this rock. 
This sea-girt rock, to solitude and famine ? 
1st Vas. Next rising tide will bring a sure 
relief 
To all the ills we leave thee. 

Hel. (starting.) I understand ye (raising 
her clasped hands to heaven.) Lord 
of heaven and earth ; 
Of storms and tempests, and th' unfathom'd 

deep ; 
Is this thy righteous will.' (grasping the 
hands of the men.) Ye cannot mean it; 
Ye cannot leave a human creature thus 
To perish by a slow approaching end. 
So awful and so terrible. Instant death 
Were merciful to this. 

1st Vas. If thou prefer'st it, we can shorten 
well 
Thy term of pain and terrour : from this 

cragg. 
Full fourteen fathom deep, thou may'st be 

plunged. ' 
In shorter time than three strokes of an oar 
Thy pains will cease. 

2d Vas. Come, that were better for thee. 
(Both of them seize her hands, and are going' 
to hurry her to the brink of the rock, when 
she shrinks back.) 

Hel. O no ! the soul recoils from swift de- 
struction ! 
Pause ye awhile, (considering for a moment.) 

The downward terrible plunge ! 
The coil of whelming waves ? — O fearful na- 
ture ! 
(catching hold of a part of the rock near her.) 
To the rough rock I'll cling : it still is some- 
thing 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



475 



Of firm and desperate hold. Depart and leave 

me. 
{Waving her hand for the Vassals to go, whilst 
she keeps close hold of the rock with the 
othef.) 

1st Vas. Thou still may'st live within a 
prison pent, 
Life is dear to thee. 

Hel. {eagerly.) If life is dear ! — alas, it is 
not dear I 
Although the passing fearful act of death 

So very fearful is Say how, even in a 

prison, 
I still may wait my quiet natural end. 

1st Vas. Whate'er thou art, such has thy 
conduct been, 
Thy wedded faith, ev'n with thy fellest foes, 
Sure and undoubted stands : — sign thou this 

scroll, 
Owning the child, thy son, of bastard birth; 
And this made sure, Lochtarish bade me say 
Thy life shall yet be spared. 

Hel. {pushing him away with indignation, 
as he offers her the scroll.) Olf, off! 
vile agent of a wretch so devilish ! 
Now do I see trom whence my ruin comes : 
I and my infant foil his wicked hopes. 

harmless babel will Heaven abandon thee ! 
It will not ! — no ; it will not ! 

{assuming firmness and dignity.) 
Depart and leave me. In my rising breast 

1 feel returning strength. Heaven aids my 

weakness : 
I'll meet its awful will. 

{leaving them off with her liand.) 
1st Vas. Well, in its keeping rest thee : 
fare thee well, 
Helen, the Campbell. 

2d Vas. Be thy sufferings short ! 
Come, quickly let us go, nor look behind. 
Fell is the service we are put upon : 
Would we had never ta'en that cruel oath ! 

[E.tEUNT Vassals. 
Hel. {after standing some time gazing round 
her, paces backwards and foncards 
with agitated steps, then, stopping 
suddenly, bends her ear to the ground 
as if she listened earnestly to some- 
thing.) It is the sound ; the heaving 
hollow swell 
That notes the turning tide. Tremendous 

agent ! 
Mine executioner, that, step by step, 
Advances to tlie awful work of death. 
Onward it wears : a little space removed 
The dreadful conflict is. {Raising her eyes to 
heaven, and moving her lips, as in 
the act of devotion, before she again 
speaks aloud.) 
Thou art i' tli' blue coped sky — th' expanse 

immeasurable ; 
r the dark roll'd clouds, the thunder's awful 

home : 
Thou art i' the wide shored earth, — the path- 
less desert ; 
And in the dread immensity of waters, — 
I' the fathomless deep thou art. 



Awful but excellent I beneath thy hand, 
With trembling confidence, 1 bow me low. 
And wait thy will in peace. {Sits down on a 
crag of a rock, tcith her arms crossed 
over her breast in silent resignation 
^then, after a pause of some lengthy 
raises her head hastily.) 
It is a sound of voices in the wind .' 
The breeze is on the rock : a gleam of sun- 
shine 
Breaks tlirough those farther clouds. It is 

like hope 
Upon a hopeless state. {Starting up,and gaz- 
ing eagerly around her.) 
I'll to that highest crag and take my stand : 
Some little speck upon the distant wave 
May to my eager gaze a vessel grow — 
Some onward wearing thing, — some boat — 
some raft — 

Some drifted plank. O hope ! thou quit'st 

us never ! 
[Exit, disappearing amongst the rugged di- 
visions of the rock. 

Scene II. — a small island from 

TFHICH THE FORMER IS SEEN IN THE 
DISTANCE, LIKE A LITTLE POINTED 
ROCK STANDING OUT OF THE SEA. 

Enter Sir Hubert de Grey, followed by two 
Fishermen. 

De Grey. This little swarded spot that o'er 
the waves, 
Cloth'd in its green light, seem'd to beckon 

to us, 
Right pleasant is : until our comrades join. 
Here will we rest. I marvel much they stand 
So far behind. In truth, such lusty rowers 
Put shame upon their skill. 

1st Fish. A cross-set current bore them 
from the track, 
But see, they now bear on us rapidly. 
Voices, {without.) Hola I 
2d Fish. They call to us. Hola ! hola ! 
How fast they wear ! they are at hand already. 
De Grey. Right glad I am : the Lord of 
Lome, I fear, 
Will wait impatiently : he has already 
With rapid oars the nearer main land gain'dj 
Where he appointed us to join him. Ho ! 

{calling off the stage.) 
Make to that point, my lads. 

{to those near him-) 
Here, for a little while, upon the turf 
We'll snatch a hasty meal, and, so refresh'd. 
Take to our boats again. 

Enter three other Fishermen, as from their 
boat on the other side. 

Well met, my friends ! I'm glad you're here 

at last. 
How was it that you took that distant track ? 
'3d Fish. The current bore us wide of what 

we wist ; 
And, were it not your honour is impatient 
Main land to make, we had not come so soon. 



476 



THE FAMILY LEGEND i 



De Grey. What had detained you ? 
'M Fish. As near yon rock we bore, that 
o'er the waves 
Just shows its jetty point, and will, ere long. 
Beneath the tide be hid, we heard the sound 
Of feeble lamentation. 
Dc Grey. A human voice ? 
3d Fish. 1 cannot think it was ; 
For on that rock, sea-girt, and at high tide, 
Sea-cover'd, human thing there cannot be; 
Though at the first it sounded in otlr ears 
Like a faint woman's voice. 
Dc Grey. Perceived ye aught .^ 
3d Fish. Yes; something white that moved, 
and, as we think, 
Some wounded bird that there hath dropp'd 

its wing. 
And cannot make its way. 

4th Fish. Perhaps some dog, 
Whose master at low water there hath been, 
And left him. 

Sd Fish. Something 'tis in woeful case, 
Whate'er it be. Right fain I would have 

gone 
To bear it off. 

De Grey, (eagerly.) And wherefore did'st 
thou not ? 
Return and save it. Be it what it may ; 
Something it is, lone and in jeopardy, 
Which hath a feeling of its desperate state. 
And therefore doth to woe worn, fearful man, 
A kindred nature bear. Return, good 

friend : — 
Quickly return and save it, ere the tide 
Shall wash it from its hold. I to the coast 
Will steer the while, and wait your coming 
there. 
3d Fish. Right gladly, noble sir. 
4th Fish. We'll gladly go : 
For, by my faith I at night I had not slept 
For thinking of that sound. 

De Grey. Heaven speed ye then ! whate'er 
ye bring to me 
Of living kind, i will reward ye for it. 
Our different tracks we hold; nor longer 

here 
Will 1 remain. Soon may we meet : God 
speed ye ! [Exeunt severally. 

Scene III. — a fisherman's house on 

THE MAIN LAND. 

Enter John of Lorne and Sir Hobert de 
Grey. 

Lorne. Then wait thou for thy boat ; I and 
my men 
Will onward to the town, where, as I hope. 
My trusty vassals and our steeds are stationed. 
But lose not time. 

De Grey. Fear not; I'll follow quickly. 

Lorne. 1 must unto the castle of Argyll 
Without delay proceed ; therefore, whate'er 
Of hving kind, bird, beast, or creeping thing, 
This boat of thine produces, bring it with 

thee ; 
And were it eaglet fierce, or wolf or fox, 
On with us shall it travel, mounted bravely. 



Our homeward cavalcade to grace. Farewell! 
Dc Grey. Farewell, my friend ! I shall not 
long delay 
Thy homeward journey. 

Lome, (calling off.) But, ho ! good host and 
hostess ! (to De Grey.) ere 1 go 
I must take leave of honest Duncan here, 
And of his rosy wife. Ay, here they come. 

Enter the Host and his Wife. 

Farewell, my friends, and thanks be to ye 

both! 
Good cheer, and kindly given, of you we've 

had. 
Thy hand, good host. May all the fish o' ih' 

ocean 
Come crowding to thy nets ! — and healthy 

brats. 
Fair dame, have thou ! with such round rosy 

cheeks 
As brats of thine befit : and, by your leave, 

(kissing her.) 
So be they kiss'd by all kind comers too ! 
Good luck betide ye both ! 
Host. And, sir, to you the same. Who- 
e'er you be, 
A brave man art thou, that 1 will be sworn. 
Wife. Come you this way again, 1 hope, 

good sir. 
You will not pass our door. 

Lorne. Fear not, good hostess ; 
It is a pleasant, sunny, open door. 
And bids me enter of its own accord ; 
I cannot pass it by. Good luck betide ye ! 
[Exit, folloioed to the door by Sir Hubert. 
Host. I will be sworn it is some noble chief- 
tain. 
Though homely be his garb. 

Wife. Ay, so will I ; the Lord of Lorne 

himself 
Could not more courteous be. 

Host. Hush, hush ! be quiet ! 
We live not now amongst the Campbells, 

wife. 
Should some Maclean o'erhear thee — hush, I 

say. 
(eyeing De Grey, who returns from the door.) 
And this man too ; right noble is his mien ; 
He is no common rambler, (to De Grey.) Bj 

your leave. 
If I may be so bold without offending, 
Your speech, methinks, smacks of a southern 

race ; 
I guess at least of lowland kin ye be. 
But think no shame of this ; we'll ne'ertheless 
Regard thee : thieves and cowards be not all 
Who from the lowlands come. 

Wife. No ; no, in sooth ! 1 knew a lowlan- 

der, 
Some years gone by, who was as true and 

honest — 
Ay, and I do believe well nigh as brave. 
As though, with brogued feet, he never else 
Had all his days than muir or mountain trode. 
De Grey. Thanks for your gentle thoughts ! 

— it has indeed 
Been my misluck to draw my earliest breath 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



477 



Where meadows flower, and cornfields wave 

i' the sun. 
But let us still be friends ! Heaven gives us 

not 
To choose our birth-place, else these wilds, no 

doubt, 
Would be more thickly peopled. 
Host. Ay, true it is indeed. 
Wife. And hard it were 
To quarrel with him too for his misfortune. 

(noise heard without.) 
De Grey. Ha ! tis my boat return'd. 



ACT IV. 



Enter 1st Fisherman. 
\st Fish. Ay, here we are. 
De Grey. And aught saved from the roclc .' 
1st Fish. Yes, by my faith ! but neither 
bird nor beast. 
Look there, my master, (pointing to the door.) 

Enter Helen, extremely exhausted, and almost 
senseless, wrapt densely up in one of their 
plaids, and supported by the other two fisher- 
men. 

De Grey. A woman ! Heaven in mercy ! 
was it then 
A human creature there exposed to perish ? 
1st Fish, (opening the plaid to show her 
face.) Ay, look'; and such a crea- 
ture ! 
De Grey, (starting back.) Helen of Argyll ! 
O God ! was this the feeble wailing voice ! 
(Clasping his arms about her knees as she 
stands almost scTiseless, supported by the fish- 
ermen, and bursting into tears.) 
Could heart of man so leave thee .' thou, of 

all 
That lovely is, most lovely. Woe is me ! 
Some aid, I pray ye. (to Host and his Wife.) 

Bear her softly in. 
And wrap warm garments round her. 

Breathes she freely .'' 
Her eyes half open are, but life, alas ! 
Is almost spent, and holds within her breast 
A weak uncertain seat. (Helen moves her 
hand.) She moves her hand : — 
' She knows my voice. O Heaven in mercy 
save her ! 
Bear her more gently, pray ve ; — softly, soft- 
ly ! 
How weak and spent she is ! 

1st Fish. No marvel she is weak : we reach'd 
her not 
Until the swelling waters laved her girdle. 

And then to see her 

De Grey. Cease, I pray thee, friend. 

And tell me not 

2d Fish. Nay, faith, he tells you true : 
She stood above the water, with stretched 

arms 
Clung to the dripping rock, like the white 
pinions — 
De Grey. Peace, peace, I say ! thy words 
are agony : 
Give to my mind no image of the thing ! 
[Exeunt, bearing Helen into an inner part of 
the house. 



Scene I. — a small Gothic hall or 

ANTI-ROOM, IN ARGYLL'S CASTLE, A 
DOOR LEADING TO THE APARTMENT OF 
THE EARL, BEFORE WHICH IS DISCOV- 
ERED THE PIPER, PACING BACKWARDS 
AND FORWARDS, PLAYING ON HIS BAG- 
PIPE. 

Enter Dugald. 

Dug. Now pray thee, piper, cease I that 

stunning din 
Might do good service by the ears to set 
Two angry clans ; but for a morning's rouse, 
Here at an old man's door, it does, good 

.sooth, 
Exceed all reasonable use. Tlie Earl 
Has past a sleepless night : I pray thee now 
Give o'er, and spare thy pains. 

Piper. And spare my pains, say'st thou .' — 

I'll do mine office. 
As long as breath within my body is. 

Dug. Then mercy on us all ! if wind thou 

mean'st. 
There is within that sturdy trunk of thine, 
Old as it is, a still exhaustless store. 
A Lapland witch's bag could scarcely match 

it. 
Thou could'st, 1 doubt not, belly out the sails 
Of a thrice-masted vessel with thy mouth : 
But be thy mercy equal to thy might ! 
I pray thee now give o'er : in faith the earl 
Has past a sleepless night. 
Piper. Think'st thou I am a lowland, day- 
hired minstrel, 
To play or stop at bidding .' is Argyll 
The lord and chieftain of our ancient clan, 
More certainly than I to him, as such, 
The high hereditary piper am .' 
A sleepless night, forsooth 1 he's slept full oft 
On the hard heath, with fifty harness'd 

steeds 
Champing their fodder round him ; — soundly 

too. 
I'll do mine office, loun, chafe as thou wilt. 

(continuing to pace up and down, and 

play as before ) 
Dug. Nay, thou the chafer art, red-crested 

cock ! 
The Lord of Lome has spoilt thee with indulo-- 

ing ° 

Thy wilful humors. Cease thy cursed din ! 
See ; here the Earl himself comes forth to 

chide thee. [Exit. 

Enter Argyll, attended, from the chamber, 

.irg. Good morrow, piper ! thou hast 
roused me bravely : 
A younger man might gird his tartans on 
With lightsome heart to martial sounds like 

these. 
But I am old. 

Piper. O no, my noble chieftain I 



478 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



It is not age subdues you. 
Arg. Mo; what else ? 
Piper. Alack, the flower and blossom of 

your house 
The wind hath blown away to other towers. 
When she was here, and gladsome faces 

briglitcn'd 
With looking on her, and around your board 
Sweet lays were sung, and gallants in the 

hall 
Footed it trimly to our varied measures, 
There might, indeed, be found beneath your 

roof 
Those who might reckon years fourscore and 

odds, 
But of old folks, I warrant, ne'er a soul. 
No ; we were all young then. 

Jlrg. (sighing deeply.) Tis true, indeed 
It was even as thou say'st. Our earthly joys 
Fly like the blossoms scatter'd by the wind. 

Enter a Servant. 
Serv. Please ye, my Lord ;- 



Some score of Vassals in the hall attend 
To bid good morrow to you, and (he hour 
Wears late : the chamberlain hath bade me 

say 
He will dismiss them, if it please your honour. 
Arg. Nay, many a mile have some of 
them, I know, 
With suit or purpose lurking in their minds, 
Rode o'er rough paths to see me ; disap- 
pointed 
Shall none of them return. I'm better now. 
I have been rather weary than unwell. 
Say, I will see them presently. 

[Exit Servant. 

Re-enter Dugald in haste. 

Thou comest witli a busy face : what tidings ? 
Dug. The Lord of Lome's arrived, an' please 
your honour : 
Sir Hubert too, and all their jolly train ; 
And with them have they brought a lady, 

closely 
In hood and mantle muffled : ne'er a glimpse 
May of her face be seen. 
Arg. A lady, say'st thou ? 
Dug. Yes ; closely muffled up. 
Arg. (pacing up and dozen, .lomcwhat dis- 
turbed.) 

I like not this. It cannot surely be. — 

(stopping short, and looking hard at 
Dugald.) 
Whence comes he .' 

Dug. He a hunting went, I know. 
To Cromack's ancient laird, whose youthful 

dame 
So famed for beauty is; but whence he 

comes, 
I cannot tell, my Lord. 

Arg. (pacing up and doicn, as he speaks 
to himself in broken sentences very 
much disturbed.) 
To Cromack's ancient laird 1 — if that in- 
deed — 
Beshrew me, if it be I — I 'd rather lose 



Half of my lands than son of mine such 

wrong. 
Such shameful wrong, should do. This sword 

I've drawn 
Like robbery to revenge, ne'er to abet it : 
And shall I now with hoary locks no, 

no ! — 
My noble Lome ! he cannot be so base. 

Enter Lorne, going up to Argyll with agita- 
tion. 
Arg. (eyeing him suspiciously.) Well, 
John, how is it .' welcome art thou 
home. 
If thou return'st, as well I would believe, 
Deserving of a welcome. 
Lome. Doubts my Lord that I am so re- 
turned .' 
{Aside to Argyll, endeavouring to draw him 

apart from his attendants.) 
Your ear, my father. 
Let these withdraw : I have a thing to tell 

you. 

Arg. (looking still more siispicioushj upon 

home , from seeing the eagerness and 

agitation icith ichich he speaks, and 

turning from him indignantly.) No, 

by this honest blade ! if wrong 

thou'st done. 

Thou hast no shelter here. In open day. 

Before th' assembled Vassals shall thou tell it ; 

And he, whom thou hast injured, be redrest. 

While I have power to bid my Campbells 

fight 
r the fair and honour'd cause. 

Lome. 1 pray, my Lord, will you vouchsafe 

to hear me .'' 
Arg. Thoughtless boy ! 
How far unlike the noble Lome I thought 

thee !— 
Proud as I am, far rather would I see thee 
Join'd to the daughter of my meanest Vassal, 
Than see thy manly, noble worth engaged 
In such foul raid as this. 

Lome. Nay, nay 1 be pacified ! 
I'd rather take, in faith, the tawny hand 
Of homeliest maid, that doth o' holidays, 
Her sun-burnt locks with worsted ribbon 

bind. 
Fairly and freely won, than briglitest dame 
That e'er in stately bower or regal hall 
In graceful beauty shone, gain'd by such 

wi'ong — 
By such base treachery as you have glanced 

at. 
These are plain words : then treat me like a 

man 
Who hath been wont the manly truth to 
speak. 
Arg. Ha, now thy countenance and tone 
again 
Are John of Lome's. That look, and whis- 
pering voice . 
So strange appear'd, in truth I liked it not. 
Give me thy hand. Where is the stranger 

dame .-' 
If she in trouble be 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



479 



Lome, (aside.) Make these withdraw, and 
I will lead her hither. 
{Exit, rcAiVc the Earl waves his hand, and Du- 
gald and Attendants, 8^c. go ovi :— presently 
re-enter Lome, leading in Helen, covered 
closely up in a mantle. 
Lome. This is the dame, who, houseless 
and deserted, 
Seeks shelter here, nor fears to be rejected. 
Helen, (sinking down, andclas'ping Argyll's 
knees.) 
My father ! 

Arg. That voice ! — O God ! — unveil, un- 
veil, for mercy ! (tearing off the man- 
tle that conceals her.) 
My child ! my Helen ! (clasping her to his 
heart, and holding her therefor some 
time, unable to speak.) 
My child ! my dearest child .' my soul I my 

pride ! 
Deserted ! — houseless ! — com'st thou to me 

thus .' 
Here is thy house — thy home : this aged bo- 
som 
Thy shelter is, which thou shalt quit no 

more. 
My child ! my child ! 

(Embracing her again. — Helen and he weep- 
ing upon one ariother's necks.) 
Houseless ! deserted ! — 'neath the cope of 

iieaven 
Breathes there a wretch who could desert 

thee .' Speak, 
If he hath so abused his precious trust, 
If he — it makes me tear these hoary locks 
To think what I have done ! — O thoughtless 

father ; 
Thoughtless and selfish too ! 
(Tearing his hair, beating his forehead with all 
the violent gestures of rage and grief.) 
Helen. Oh, oh I forbear 1 it was not you, 
my father , 
I gave myself away : I did it wilUngly : 
We acted both for good ; and now your love 
Repavs me richly — stands to me instead 
Of many blessings. Noble Lome, besides — 
O, he hath been to me so kind — so tender ! 
(Taking her brother's hand, and pressing it to 
her breast — theji joining her father's to it, 
and pressing them both ardently to her lips.) 
Say not I am deserted : Heaven hath chid 

me — 
Hath chid me sorel}'; but hath blest me 

too. 
O, dearly blest me ! 

.flrg. Hath chid thee sorely ! how 1 burn 
to hear it ! 
What hast thou suffer'd ? 

Lome. We will not tell thee now. Go to 
thy chamber. 
And be a while composed. We have, my fa- 
ther, 
A tale to tell that will demand of thee 
Recruited strength to hear. We'll follow 

thee. 
[Exeunt Lome, supporting his father anxl 
Helen into the chamber. 



Scene II. — the garden of the cas- 
tle. 



Enter Argyll, Lorne, and Sir Hubert De 
Grey, speaking as they enter. 

Lorne. A month ! — a week or two ! — no, 
not an hour 
Would I suspend our vengeance. Such atro- 
city 
Makes e'en the little term between our sum- 
mons 
And the dark crowding round our martial 

pipes. 
Of plumed bonnets nodding to the wind. 
Most tedious seem : yea, makes the impatient 

foot 
To smite the very earth beneath its tread, 
For being fixt and ertless. 

Jr<r. Be less impatient, John : thou canst 
not doubt 
A father's keen resentment of such wrong: 
But let us still be wise ; this short delay 
Will make revenge the surer ; to its aim 
A just direction give. 

De Grey. The Earl is right : 
We shall but work in the dark, impatient 

Lorne, 
If we too soon begin. 

Jlrg. How far Maclean 
Hath to this horrible attempt consented. 
Or privy been, we may be certified, 
By waiting silently to learn the tale 
That he will tell us of his Lady's loss, 
When he shall send to give us notice of it, 
As doubtless soon he will. 

De Grey. If he, beset and threatened, to 
those fiends. 
Unknowing of their purpose, hath unwilling- 

Committed her, he will himself, belike. 
If pride prevent him not, your aid solicit 
To e&t him free from his disgraceful thral- 
dom. 
Lorne. And if he should, shrunk be this 
sinew'd arm. 
If it unsheath a weapon in his cause ! 
Let every ragged strippling on his lands 
In wanton mockery mouth him with con- 
tempt ! 
Benlora head his Vassals ; and Lochtarish — 
That serpent, full of every devilish wile. 
His prison keeper and his master be ! 

De Grey. Ay ; and the keeper also of his 
son. 
The infant heir. 

Lorne. (starting.) I did not think of this. 
Mrg. Then let thy head-strong fury pause 
upon it. 
Thanks to Sir Hubert's prudence ! thou as 

yet 
Before thy followers hast restrained been ; 
And who this lady is, whom to the castle, 
Like a mysterious stranger, ye have brought. 
From them remains conceal'd. My brave De 

Grey ! 
This thy considerate foresight, join 'd to p'' 



480 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Thy other service in this woeful matter, 
Hath made us much tliy debtor. 
De Grey. I have, indeed, my Lord, consid- 
ered only 
What I believed would Helen's wishes be. 
Ere she herself could utter them ; if this 
Hath proved equivalent to wiser foresight. 
Let it direct us still ; let Helen's wishes 
Your measures guide. 
Srg. Ah, brave De Grey ! would they had 
ever done so ! 

I had not now {taking Sir Hubert's 

hand with emotion.) Forgive me, no- 
ble youth ! 
Alas, alas, the father's tenderness 
Before the chieftain's policy gave way. 
And all this wreck hath been. 

Lome. Tis even so. 
That cursed peace ; that coward's shadeless 

face 
Of smiles and promises, to all things yielding 
With weak, unmanly pliancy, so gain'd 

you 

Even you, the wise Argyll !— it made me 

mad ! 
Who hath no point that he maintains against 

you. 
No firmness hath tdiold him of your side : 
Who cannot sturdily against me stand. 
And say, 'encroach no farther,' friend of 

mine 
Shall never be. 

Dc Grey. Nay, Lome, forbear — forbear ! 
Thine own impetuous wilfulness did make 
The other's pliant mind more specious seem ; 
And thou thyself did'st to that luckless union. 
Although unwittingly, assistance lend. 
Make now amends for it, and curb thy spirit. 
While that the earl with calmer judgment 

waits 
His time for action. 

Lome. Beshrew me, but thy counsel strange- 
ly smacks 
Of cautious timid age ! in faith, De Grey, 
But that I know thy noble nature well, 

I could believe thee 

Jlrg. Peace, unruly spirit! 
Bold as thou art, methinks, with locks like 

these, 
Thy father still may say to thee, ' be silent !' 
Lome, {checking himself, and hawing very 
loio to Argyll.) And be obeyed, de- 
voutly. O forgive me ! 
Those locks are to your brows a kingly fillet 
Of strong authority, to which my heart 
No rebelis, though rude may be my words. 
{taking Sir Pluburt's hand with an assured 

countenance.) 
I ask not thee, De Grey, to pardon me. 
Resistance liere with gentleness is join'd, 
Therefore I've loved thee, and have laid upon 

thee 
The hand of sure possession ; claiming still 
A friend's endurance of my froward temper. 
Which, froward as it is, from thee hath borne 
What never human being but thyself 
Had dared to goad it with. 



De Grey. It is indeed 
Thy well-earn'd right thou askest, noble 

Lome, 
And it is yielded to thee cheerfully. 
.^rg. My aged limbs are tired with pacing 
here : 
Some one approaches : within that grove 
We'll find a shady seat, and there conclude 
Tliis well debated point. [Execnt. 

Scene III. — a court within the cas- 
tle SURROUNDED WITH BUILDINGS. 

Enter Dugald and a Vassal, two Servants at 
the same time cross with covered dishes in 
their hands. 

Vas. I'll wait until the Earl shall be at lei- 
sure ; 
My business presses not. Where do they carry 
Those cover'd meats .' have ye within the cas- 
tle 
Some noble prisoner ? 

Dug. Would so it were ! but these are days 
of peace. 
They bear thern to the stranger dame's apart- 
ment, 
Whom they have told thee of. There, at her 

door. 
An ancient faithful handmaid of the house, 
Whate'er they bring receives ; for none be- 
sides 
Of all the household is admitted. 

Vas. Now, by my fay ! my purse and dirk 
I'd give 
To know who. this may be. Some chieftain's 
lady 

Whom John of Lome 

Dug. Nay, there, I must believe. 
Thou guessest erringly. I grant, indeed, 
He doffs his bonnet to each tacks-man's wife, 
And is with every coif amongst them all, 
Both young and old, in such high favour held, 
Nor maiden, wife, nor beldame of the clan 
But to the Earl doth her petition bring 
Through intercession of the Lord of Lome ; 
But never yet did husband, sire, or brother, 
Of wrong from him complain. 
Vas. I know it well. 
Dug. But be she whom she may, 
This stranger here ; 1 doubt not, friend, ere 

long, 
We shall have bickering for her in the field 
With some fierce foe or other. 

Vas. So I trust : 
And by my honest faith ! this peace of ours 
Right long and tiresome is. 1 thought, ere 

now. 
Some of our restless neighbours would have 

trespass'd 
And inroads made : but no ; Argyll and Lome 
Have grown a terror to them : all is quiet ; 
And we ourselves must the aggressors be, 
Or still this dull and slothful life endure, 
Which makes our men of three-score years 

and ten 
To fret and murmur. 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



481 



Enter Rosa, with a servant conducting her. 

Serv. (ioDugald.) A lady here, would see 

my Lord of Lome. 
Dug. Yes, still to him they come, (looking 
at Rosa.) Ha, see 1 rightly .■' 
Rosa from Mull ? 

Rosa. Yes, Dugald ; here thou see'st 
A woeful bearer of unwelcome tidings. 
Bug. What, hath thy Lady sent thee ? 
Rosa. Alas, alas ! 1 have no Lady now. 
Dug. Ha ! is she dead ? not many days ago 
She was alive and well. Hast thou so soon 
The castle quitted — ISft thy Lady's corse ? 
Rosa. Think'st thou I would have left her ? 
on the night 
When, as they say, she died, I from the castle 
By force was ta'en, and to main-land con- 

vey'd ; 
Where in confinement I remain'd, till chance 
Gave me the means of breaking from my 

prison ; 
And hither am 1 come, in woeful plight, 
The dismal tale to tell. 

Dug. A tale, indeed, most dismal, strange, 

and sudden. 
Rosa How she died 
God knows ; but much I fear foul play she had. 
Where is the Lord of Lome ? for first to him 
I wish to speak. 
Dug. Come, I will lead thee to him. Had 

foul play ! 
Vas. Fell fiends they are could shed her 
blood ! if this 
Indeed hath been, 'twill make good cause, I 

wot; 
The warlike pipe will sound our summons 

soon. 
(Exeunt Dugald and Rosa, <^c. as Argyll and 
Sir Hubert enter by the opposite side.) 
Arg. And wilt thou leave us then, my no- 
ble friend? 
May we not still for some few days retain 
thee .? 
Da Grey. Where'er I go, I carry in my 
heart 
A warm remembrance of the friendly home 
That still within these hospitable walls 
I've found ; but longer urge me not to stay. 
In Helen's presence now, constrained and 

strange. 
With painful caution, chacing from my lips 
The ready thought, half quiver'd into ut- 
terance, 
For cold corrected words, expressive only 
Of culprit consciousness, — I sit ; nor even 
May look upon her face but as a thing 
On which I may not look ; so painful now 
The mingled feeling is, since dark despair 
With one faint ray of hope hath temper'd 

been. 
I can no more endure it. She herself 
Perceives it, and it pains her. Let me then 
Bid you farewell, my Lord. When evening 

comes, 
I'll under favour of the rising moon. 
Set forth. 

60 



Jlrg. Indeed ! so soon .' and must it be ? 
Dc Grey. Yes ; to.Northumberland without 
delay 
I fain would take my road. My aged father 
Looks now impatiently for my return. 

Arg. Then I'll no longer urge thee. To 
thy father, 
The noble Baron, once, in better days, 
My camp-mate and my friend, I must resign 

thee . 
Bear to him every kind and cordial wish 

An ancient friend can send, and 

(a hoin heard without.) Hark, that horn ! 
Some messenger of moment is arrived. — — 
We'll speak of this again. The moon to-night 

Is near the full, and at an early hour 

Enter a Messenger, bearing a letter. 
Whose messenger art thou , who in thy hand 
That letter bear'st with broad and sable seal, 
Which seems to bting to me some dismal ti- 
dings .' 
Mess. From Mull, my Lord, I come; and 
the Maclean, 
Our chief, commissioned me to give you this, 
Which is indeed with dismal tidings fraught, 
(Argyll opens the letter, and reads it with affect- 
ed surprise and sorrow.) 
Jlrg. Heavy indeed and sudden is the loss — 
The sad calamity that hath befallen. 
The will of Heaven be done ! 
{putting a handkerchief to his eyes, andleaning 
as if for support, upon Sir Hubert — then^ 
after a pause, turning to the Messenger, j 
How did'st thou leave the chieftain i he, I 

hope, 
Permits not too much sorrow to o'ercome 
His manhood : doth he bear his grief com- 
posedly .'' 
Mess. O no, it is most violent ! at the fune- 
ral. 
Had not the good Lochtarish, by his side. 
Supported him, he had with very grief 
Sunk to the earth. And good Lochtarish too, 
Was in right great affliction. 

Jlrg. Ay, good man ; 
I doubt it not. Ye've had a splendid funeral .-* 
Mess. O yes, my Lord ! that have we had. 
Good truth ! 
A grand and stately burial has it been. 
Three busy days and nights through all the 

isle 
Have bagpipes played, and sparkling beakers 

flowed ; 
And never corse, I trovF, i' th' earth was laid 
With louder lamentations. 

Jlrg. Ay, I doubt not, 
Their grief was loud enough. Pray pass ye in. 
{to attendants.) 
Conduct him there ; and see that he be treat- 
ed, 
Afler his tedious journey, as befits 
A way -tired stranger. 

[Exeunt, aZi but Argyll and Sir Hubert. 
This doth all hope and all belief exceed. 
Maclean will shortly follow this his notice, 
(giving Sir Hubert the letter.) 



482 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



To make me here a visit of condolence ; 
And thus within our power they put them- 
selves 
With most assured blindness. 

De Grey, {after reading it.) 'Tis Lochtarish, 
In all the arts of dark hypocrisy 
So deeply skill'd , who doth o'ershoot his mark , 
As such full often do. 

Jirg. And lot him come ! 
At Jiis own arts we trust to match him well. 
Their force, I guess, is not in readiness. 
Therefore, meantime, to stifle all suspicion, 
This specious mummery he hath devised ; 
And his most wretched chief, led by his will, 
Most wretchedly submits. Well, let us go 
And tell to Lome the news, lest too unguard- 
edly 
He should receive it. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — an apartment in the cas- 

TI.E. 

Enter Sir Hubert De Grey, beckoning to 
Rosa, who appears on the opposite side. 

De Grey. Rosa; I pray thee, spare me of 
thy leisure 
Some precious moments : something would I 

say : 
Wilt thou now favour me .' 
Rosa. Most willingly. 

De Grey. As yet thy mistress knows not of 
the letter 
Sent by Maclean, announcing his design 
Of paying to the Earl this sudden visit — . 
This mockery of condolence .'' 

Rosa. No ; the Earl 
Forbade me to inform her. 
De Grey. This is well ; 
Her mind must be prepared. Meantime 1 go. 
And thou art here to comfort and attend her : 
O do it gently, Rosa ! do it wisely ! 

Rosa. You need not doubt my will. Go 
ye so soon ; 
And to Northumberland .' 

De Grey. So 1 intended, 
And so Argyll and John of Lome believe : 
But since this messenger from Mull arrived. 
Another thought has struck me. Said'st thou 

not 
The child — thy Lady's child, ta'en from the 

castle, 
Is to the keeping of Lochtarish's mother 
Committed, whose lone house is on the shore .' 
Rosa. Yes, whilst in prison pent, so did I 
hear 
My keeper say, and much it troubled me. 
De Grey. Canst thou to some good islander 
commend me, 
Within whose house I might upon the watch 
Conceal'd remain ? — It is to Mull I go. 
And not to England. While Maclean is here, 
Attended by liis Vassals, the occasion 
I'll seize to save the infant. 

Rosa. Bless thee for it ! 
Heaven bless thee for the thought ! — I know 



An aged fisherman, who will receive you; 
Uncle to Morton : and if he himself 
Still in the island be, there will you find him, 
Most willing to assist you. 

Dc Grey. Hush, I pray, I hear thy Lady's 

steps. 
Rosa. Near to the castle gate, e'er you de- 
part, 
I'll be in waiting to inform you farther 
Of what may aid your purpose. 

Dc Grey. Do, good Rosa, 
And make me much thy debtor. But be se- 
cret. • 
Rosa. You need not doubt me. 

Enter Helen , and De Grey goes up to her as if 
he would speak, but the words falter on his 
lips, and he is silent. 

Hel. Alas ! I see it is thy parting visit ; 
Thou com'st to say ' farewell I' 

De Grey. Yes, Helen : I am come to leave 

with thee 

A friend's dear benison a parting wish 

A last rest every blessing on thy head ! 

Be this permitted to me : {kissing her hand.) 

Fare thee well ! 
Heaven aid and comfort thee ! farewell ! fare- 
well ! {is about to retire hastily, 

lohilst }\e\en follows to prevent him.) 
Hel. O go not from me with that mournful 

look! 
Alas ! thy generous heart, deprest and sunk, 

Looks on my state too sadly. 

I am not as thou think'st, a thing so lost. 
In woe and wretchedness. Believe not so ! 
All whom misfortune with her rudest blasts 
Hath buffeted, to gloomy wretchedness 
Are not therefore abandoned. Many souls 
From cloister'd cells, from hermits' caves, 

from holds 
Of lonely banishment, and from the dark 
And dreary prison house, do raise their 

thoughts 
With humble cheerfulness to heaven, and feel 
A hallowed quiet, almost akin to joy : 
And may not I, by Heaven's kind mercy 

aided, 
Weak as I am, with some good courage bear 

What is appointed for me .' O be cheer'd I 

And let not sad and mournful thoughts of me 
Depress thee thus : — when thou art far away, 
Thou'lt hear, the while, that in my father's 

house 
I spend my peaceful days, and let it cheer 

thee. 
1 too shall every southern stranger question, 
Whom chance may to these regions bring, 

and learn 
Thy fame and prosperous state. 

Dc Grey. My fame and prosperous state, 

while thou art thus I 
If thou in calm retirement livest contented, 
Liftino- thy soul to heaven, what lack I more .' 
My sword and spear, changed to a pilgrim's 

staff. 
Will be a prosperous state ; and for my 

fame, — 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



483 



A feeble sound that after death remains, 
The echo of an unrepeated stroke 
That fades away to silence ,— surely this 
Thou dost not covet for me. 

Hel. Ah, 1 do ! 
Yet, granting here I err, didst thou not pro- 
mise 
To seek in wedded love and active duties 
Thy share of cheerful weal? — and dost thou 

now 
Shrink from thy generous promise ? no, thou 

shalt not. 
I hold thee bound— I claim it of thee boldly. 
It is my right. If thou, in sad seclusion, 
A lonely wanderer art, thou dost extinguish 
The ray that should have cheer'd my gloom : 

thou inakest 
What else had been a calm and temper'd sor- 
row, 
A state of wretchedness. O no ! thou wilt 

not! 
Take to thy generous heart some virtuous 

maid. 
And doubt not thou a kindred heart wilt find. 
The cheerful tenderness of woman's nature 
To thine is suited, and when join'd to thee. 
Will grow in virtue : — take thou then this 

ring. 
If thou wilt honour so my humble gift, 
And put it on her hand ; and be assured 
She who shall wear it, — she whose happy fate 
Is link'd with tliine, will prove a noble mate. 
De Grey. O there I am assured ! she whose 
fate 
Is link'd with mine, iffix'd be such decree, 
Most rich in ev'ry soft and noble trait 
Of female virtue is : in this full well 

Assured I am. 1 would — I thought — 

forgive — 
1 speak but raving words : — a hasty spark, 
Blown and extinguished, makes me waver 

thus. 
Permit me then again, {kissing her hand.) 

High Heaven protect thee ! 
Farewell ! 

Hel. Farewell ! and Heaven's good charge 
be thou ! 
(They part, and hoth turn away opposite, when 
Sir Hubert, looking round just as he is about 
to CO off, and seeing Helen also looking after 
him, sorrowfully, eagerly returns.) 

De Grey. Ah ! are those looks 

(Going to kneel at her feet, hit immediately 
checking himself with much embarrassment.) 
Alas ! why come 1 back .' 

Something there was thou gavest me a 

ring ; 
I have not dropt it .' 

Rosa, {coming forward.) No, 'tis on your 

finger. 
De Grey. Ay, true, good Rosa; but my 
wits are wilder'd ; 
1 knew not what I sought. Farewell ! fare- 
well ! 
[Exit De Grey hastily, while Helen and Rosa 
go off by the opposite side. 



ACT V. 
Scene I.— Argyll's castle, the 

GRAND ENTRANCE A NOISE OF BUS- 
TLE AND VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, 
AND SERVANTS SEEN CROSSING THE 
STAGE, AS THE SCENE OPENS. 

Enter Dugald, meeting 1st Servant. 

Dug. They are arrived, Maclean and all his 
train ; 
Run quickly, man, and give our chieftams 
notice . 
1st Serv. They know already : from the 
tower we spied 
The mournful cavalcade : the Earl and Lome 
Are down the stair-case hasting to receive 
them. 
Dug. I've seen them light, a sooty-coated 
train, 
With lank and woeful faces, and their eyes 
Bent to the ground, as though our castle 

gate 
Had been the scutcheon'd portal of a tomb, 
Set open to receive them. 
2d Serv. Ay, on the pavement fall their 
heavy steps. 
Measured and slow, as if her palled coffin 
They follow'd still. 

Dug. Hush, man ! here comes the Earl, 
With face composed and stern ; but look be- 
hind him 
How John of Lome doth gnaw his nether lip, 
And beat his clench'd hand against his thigh. 
Like one who tampers with half-bridled ire ! 
2d Serv. Has any one offended him ? 
Dug. Be silent, 

For they will overhear thee. Yonder too 

(pointing to the opposite side of the stage.) 
Come the Macleans : let us our stations keep, 
And see them meet. {retiring.) 

Enter Argyll and Lorne, attended, and in 
deep mourning — while, at the same time, by 
the opposite side, enter Maclean, Benlora, 
LocHTARisH and Glenfadden, with attend- 
ants, also in deep mourning — Argyll and 
Maclean go up to one another, and formally 
embrace. 

Arg. Welcome ! if such a cheerful word as 
this 

May with our deep affliction suited be. 

Lochtarish too, and brave Benlora; aye, 

And good Glenfadden also;— be ye all 

With due respect received, as claims your 
worth. 

(Taking them severally by the hand as he 
names them — Maclean then advances to cm- 
brace Lorne, ?oAo shrinks back from hiin, but 
immediately correcting himself, bends his 
body another way, as if suddenly seized with, 
some violent pain.) 

Arg. {to Maclean.) Regard him not : he 
hath imprudently 

A recent wound exposed to chilling air, 



484 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



And oft the pain with sudden pang attacks 
him. 
Loch. Ay, what is shrewder ? we have felt 
the hke, 
And know it well, my Lord. 
Arg. {hoioing to Lochtarish, hut continuing 
to s])cak to Maclean.) Yet ne'erthe- 
less, good son-in-law and chieftain, 
Believe thou well that with a brother's feel- 

Proportion'd to the dire and dismal case 
That hath befallen, he now receives you ; also 
Receiving these your friends with equal fa- 
vour. 
This is indeed to us a woeful meeting. 
Chieftain of Mull, (looking keenly in Ids face, 

loliile the other shuns his eye.) 
I see full well the change 
Which violent grief upon that harrow'd vis- 
age 
So deeply hath impress'd. 
Mac. (still embarrassed, and shrinking from 
Argyll's observation.) Ah, ah ! the 
woetul day ! I cannot speak. 
Alas, alas 1 

Jlrg. Alas, in truth. 
Too much the woeful widower's alter'd looks 
Upon thy face I see. 

Lock, {to Argyll.) You see, my Lord, his 
eyes with too much weeping 
Are weak , and shun the light. Nor should we 

marvel 
What must to him the sudden loss have been, 
When even to us, who were more distantly 
Connected with her rare and matchless virtue, 
It brought such keen affliction .'' 

Jlrg. Yes, good Lochtarish, I did give her 
to ye— 
To your right worthy chief, a noble creature, 
With every kindly virtue — every grace 
That might become a noble chieftain's wife : 
And that ye have so well esteem'd — so well 
Regarded, cherish'd, and respected her, 
As your excessive sorrow now declares, 
Receive from me a grateful father's thanks. 
Lochtarish, most of all to thy good love 
I am beholden. 

Loch. Ah ! small was the merit 
Such goodness to respect. 

Arg. And thou, lienlora; 
A woman, and a stranger, on the brave 
Still potent claims maintain ; and little doubt I 
They were by thee regarded. (Benlora steps 
back, frowning sternly, and remains 
silent.) And, Glenfadden, 
Be not thy merits overlook'd. 

Glen. Alas ! 
You over-rate, my Lord, such slender service. 
£rg. Wrong not, I pray, thy modest worth. 
But here. 

(turning again to Maclean.) 
Here most of all, from whom her gentle vir- 
tues, 
And so indeed it right and fitting was. 
Their best and dearest recompense received, 
To thee, most generous chieftain, let me pay 
The thanks that are thy due. 



Mac. Oh, oh ! alas ! 

Arg. Ay, in good sooth ! I see thy grief- 
worn eyes 
Do shun the light. 

But grief is ever sparing of her words. 
In brief, I thank you all : and for the love 
Ye have so dearly shown to me and mine, 
I trust, before we part, to recompense ye 
As suits your merit and my gratitude. 

Lome, (aside to Argyll.) Ay, father ; now 
ye speak to them shiewd words ; 
And now I'm in the mood to back you well. 
Jlrg. (aside to home.) 'Tis well thou art > 
but check those eager looks ; 
Lochtarish eyes thee keenly. 
{Directing a hasty glance to Lochtarish, who 
is whispering to Glenfadden, and looking 
suspiciously at Lome .) 
Lome, (stepping forward to Maclean, <^-c.) 
Chieftain, and honour'd gentlemen, 
I pray 
The sullen, stern necessity excuse 
Which pain imposed upon me, and receive, 
Join'd with my noble father's, such poor* 

thanks 
As I may offer to your loving worth. 

Jlrg. Pass on, I pray ye ; till the feast be 
ready. 
Rest ye above, where all things are prepared 
For your refreshment. [Exeunt. 

Scene II, — a narrow arched room, 

ADJOINING TO A GALLERY. 

Enter Lochtarish and Glenfadden. 

Loch. How lik'st thou this, Glenfadden ? 
doth the face 
Argyll assumes, of studied courtesy, 
Raise no suspicion.^ 

Glen. Faith, I know not well ! — 
The speech, indeed, with which he welcomed 

us, 
Too wordy, and too artificial seem'd 
To be the native growth of what he felt. 
Loch. It so to me appear'd : and John of 
Lome, 
First slirinking from Maclean, with sudden 

pain, 
As he pretended, struck, then stern and si- 
lent. 
Till presently assuming, like his father, 
A courtesy, minute, and over studied, 

He glozed us with his thanks : 

Didst thou not mark his keenly flashing eye, 
When spoke Argyll of recompensing us 
Before we part.'' 

Glen. I did indeed observe it. 
Loch. This hath a meaning. 
Glen. Faitli, I do suspect 
Some rumour must have rcach'd their ear; 

and yet 
Our agents faithful are ; it cannot be. 

Loch. Or can, or can it not, beneath this 
roof 
A night I will not sleep. When evening^ 
comes, 



THE FAMILY LEGEND, 



485 



Meet we again. If at this banquet, aught 
Shall happen to confirm our fears, forthwith 
Let us our safety seek in speedy flight. 
Glen. And leave Maclean behind us.' 
Loch. Ay, and Benlora too. Affairs the bet- 
ter 
At Mull will thrive, when we have rid our 

hands 
Of both these hind'rances, who in our way 
Much longer may not be. {listening.) We're 

interrupted. 
Let us into the gallery return, 
And join the company with careless face, 
Like those who have from curiosity 
But stepp'd aside to view the house. Make 

haste ! 
It is Argyll and Lome. 

[Exeunt, looking to the opposite side, alarmed, 
at whicli enter Argyll and Lome. 
Lome. Are you not now convinced ? his 

conscious guilt 
Is in his downcast and embarrass'd looks, 
And careful shunning of all private converse 
Whene'er aside you've drawn him from his 

train, 
Too plainly seen : you cannot now, my Lord, 
Doubt of his share in this atrocious deed. 
Arg. Yet, Lome,! vvould, ere further we 

proceed, 
Prove it more fully still. The dinner hour 
Is now at hand, (listening.) What steps are 

those. 
That in the gallery, close to this door, 
Like some lone straggler from the company 
Withdrawn, sound quickly pacing to and fro ? 
Look out and see. (Lome going to the door, 

and calling back to Argyll in a low 

voice.) It is Maclean himself 
Jlrg. Beckon him hither then. Thank 

Heaven for this ! 
Now opportunity is fairly given, 
If that constrainedly he cloaks their guilt. 
To free him from their toils. 

Enter Maclean conducted by Lorne. 

Arg. (<o Maclean.) My son, still in restraint 
before our Vassals 

Have we conversed ; but now in privacy. 

Start not, 1 pray thee : — sit thee down, Mac- 
lean : 
I would have close and private words of thee : 
Sit down, I pray ; my aged limbs are tired. 
(Argyll and Maclean sit down, loliilst Lorne 

stands behind them, loith his ear bent eagerly 

to listen, and his eyes fixed with a side 

glance on Maclean.) 
Chieftain, I need not say to thee, who deeply 
Lament'st with us our sad untimely loss. 

How keenly I have felt it. 

And now indulge a father in his sorrow, 
And say how died my child. Was her dis- 
ease 
Painful as it was sudden ? 

Mac. It was, alas! I know not how it was. 
A fell disease ! — her end was so appointed. 

Lorne. {behind.) Ay, that [ doubt not. 



Mac. A fearful malady ! though it received 
All good assistance. 

Lorne. {behind.) That I doubt not either. 

Mac. A cruel ill ! but how it dealt with her, 
My grief o'erwhelm'd nie so, I could not tell. 

Jlrg. Say — Wert thou present .' did'st thou 
see her die i 

Mac. Oh, oh ! the woeful sight, that I should 
see it! 

Jirg. Thou didst not see it then .'' 

Mac. Alack , alack ! • 

would that I had seen O, woe is me ! 

Her pain — her agony was short to mine ! 

Lorne. {behind impatiently.) Is this an an- 
swer, chieftain, to the question 
Argyll hath plainly ask'd thee .'' — wert thou 

present 
When Helen died .' didst thou behold her 
death .' 
Mac. O yes ; indeed I caught your mean- 
ing lamely ; 

1 meant — 1 thought— I know not certainly 
The very time and moment of her death, 
Although within my arms she breathed her 

last. 
Lome, {rushing forward eagerly.) Now are 
we answered. 
(Argyll, covering his face with his hands, 
throws himself back in his chair for some 
time without speaking.) 
Mac. {to Argyll.) I fear, my Lord, too much 

I have distress'd you. 
Jlrg. Somewhat you have indeed. And fur- 
ther now 
I will not press your keen and recent sorrow 
With questions that so much renew its an- 
guish. 
Mao. You did, belike, doubt of my tender- 
ness. 
Jlrg. O no ! I have no doubts. Within your 
arms 
She breath'd her last ? 

Mac. Within my arms she died. 
Jlrg. {looking hard at Maclean, and then 
turning axoay.) His father was a 
brave and honest chief! 
Mac. What says my Lord ? 
Jlrg. A foolish e.xclamation, 
Of no determined meaning, {bell sounds with- 
out.) Dry our tears : 
The hall-bell warns us to the ready feast ; 
And through the gallery 1 hear the sound 
Of many- footsteps hastening to the call. 
Chieftain, I follow thee. 

[Exeunt Argyll and Maclean. 
Lorne. (alone, stopping to listen.) The cas- 
tle, throng'd throughout with mov- 
ing life 
From every winding stair, and arched aisle 
A mingled echo sends. 

Ay ; light of foot, I hear their sounding steps 
A-trooping to tlie feast, who never more 
At feast shall sit or social meal partake. 
O wretch ! O fiend of vile hypocrisy ! 
How fiercely burns my blood within my veins 
Till 1 am match'd with thee ! [Exit. 



486 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Scene III. — the great hax^l op the 

CASTLE, WITH A FEAST SET OUT, AND 
THE COMPANY ALREADY PLACED AT 
TABLE, WITH SERVANTS AND ATTEND- 
ANTS IN WAITING, WHO FILL EVERY 

PART ARGYLL IS SEATED AT THE 

HEAD OP THE TABLE, WITH MACLEAN 
ON HIS LEFT HAND, AND A CHAIR LEFT 
EMPTY ON HIS RIGHT. 

Arg. (to Maclean S^c.) Most worthy chief, 
and honoured guests and kinsmen, 
I crave your pardon for tliis short delay : 
One of our company is wanting still, 
For whom we have reserved this empty place; 
Nor will the chief of Mull unkindly take it, 
That on our better hand this chair of honour 
Is for a Lady kept. 

Jill. A Lady ! (a general murmur of sur- 
prise is heard through the hall.) 
Arg. Yes ; 
Who henceforth of this house the mistress is ; 
And were it palace of our Scottish king, 
Would so deserve to be. 
.ill. We give you joy, my Lord, (a con- 
fused murmur heard again.) 
Mac. We give you joy, luy Lord ; your age 
is blest. 
We little thought in these our funeral weeds, 
A bridal feast to darken, 

Lome. No, belike. 
Many who'd on their coat at break of day, 
Know not what shall befall them, therein girt, 
Ere evening close, (assuming a gay tone.) 
The Earl hath set a step-dame o'er my head 
To cow my pride. What think ye brave Mac- 
lean .'' . . 
This world so fleeting is, and full of change, 
Some lose their wives I trow, and others find 

them. 
Bridegrooms and widowers do, side by side. 
Their beakers quaff; and which of them at 

heart 
Most glad or sorry is, the subtle fiend, 
Who in men's hollow hearts his council 

holds, 
He wotteth best, though each good man will 

swear. 
His lost or found all other dames excell'd. 
Arg. Curb, Lome, thy saucy tongue : 
Maclean himself 
Shall judge if she — the Lady 1 have found. 
Equal in beauty she whom lie hath lost. 
In worth I'm sure she does. — But hush ! she 

comes. 
(Jl great commotion through the hall amongst 
the. Attendants, S^c.) 
Ml. It is the Lady. 

Arg. (rising from his scat, and making 
signs to the Attendants nearest the 
door.) IIo, there I make room, and 
let the Lady pass. 
(The Servants <^-c. stand apart, ranging them- 
selves on cvcTij side to let her pass ; and en- 
ter Helen magnificently dressed with a deep 
wkito veil over her face ; while Lome, going 



forward to meet her, conducts her to her ehair 

ore Argyll's right hand.) 

Arg. (to <Ae Campbells.) Now, fill a cup of 

welcome to our friends. 
Loch, (to Maclean.) Chieftain, forgettest 

thou to greet the Lady .-' 
Mac. (turning to Argyll.) Nay, rather give, 
my Lord, might I ji resume, 
Our firstling cup to this fair Lady's health, 
The noble dame of this right princely house. 
And, though close veil'd she be, her beauty's 

lustre 
I little question. 

(Fills up a gohlet, while Lochtarish, Benlora, 
<^c. follow his example, and, standing up, 
hows to the Lady.) 
Your health, most noble dame. 
(Helen, rising also, hows to him, and, throws 
hack her veil, the cup falls from his hands ; 
all the company start up from tahle; screams 
and exclamations of surprise are heard from 
all corners of the hall, and confused commo- 
tion seen every where. Maclean, Lochta- 
rish, and G-lenfadden, stand appalled and 
motionless ; hut Benlora lookijig fiercely 
round him, draics his sword.) 
Ben. What ! are we here like deer bay'd in 
a nook .•" 
And think ye so to slay us, crafty foe .'' 
No, by my faith ! like such we will not fall, 
Arms in our hands, though by a thousand 

foes 
Encompass'd. — Cruel, murderous, ruthless 

men. 
Too good a warrant have ye now to think us. 
But cowards never ! Rouse ye, base Mac- 
leans ! 
And thou, whose subtlety around us thus 
With wreckful skill these cursed toils have 

wound, 
Sinks thy base spirit now ? (to Lochtarish.) 
Arg. (holding up his hand.) Be silence in 
the hall ! 
Macleans, ye are my guests : but if the feast 
Delight ye not, free leave ye have to quit it. 
Lome, see them all, with right due courtesy, 
Safely protected to the castle gate. 

(turning to Maclean.) 
Here, other name than chieftain or Maclean 
He may not give thee : but without our walls, 
If he should call thee murderer, traitor, cow- 
ard. 
Weapon to weapon, let your fierce contention 
Be fairly held, and he, v/ho first shall yield. 

The liar be. Campbells! I charge ye there. 

Free passage for the chieftain and his train. 
(Maclean and Lochtarish, &^c. icithout speak- 
ing, quit the hall through the crowd of At- 
tendants, %cho divide and form a lane to let 
them pass. Helen, icho had sunk down al- 
most senseless upon Iter scat, seeing the luiR 
chared of the crowd loho go out after the 
Macleans, now starts up, and catches hold 
o/' Argyll, with an imploring look of strong 
distress.) 

Hel. O father ! well I know foul are his 
crimes, 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



487 



But what — O what, am I, that for my sake 
This bloody strife should be ? — O think, my 

Lord ! 
He gave consent and sanction to my death, 
But thereon could not look : and at your 

gate — 
Even on your threshold, must his life be 

ta'en ? 
For well I know the wroth of Lome is dead- 

ly- 

And gallant Lome himself, if scaith should 

be, — 
O pity, pity ? — O for pity stay them ! 
Jirg. Let go thy hold, weak woman: pity 
now ! 
Rosa, support her hence. 
{Committing her to Rosa, tcho noio comes for- 
ward, and tearing himself away.) 
Hel. (endeavouring to run after him, and 
catch hold of him again.) 

be not stern ? beneath the ocean rather 
Would I had sunk to rest than been the 

cause 
Of horrid strife like this. O pity ! pity ! 
[ExEDNT, she running out after him, distract- 
edly. 

Scene IV. — before the gate of the 

CASTLE. 

A confused noise of an approaching crowd heard 
within, and presently enter, from the gate, 
Maclean, Benlora, Lochtarish, and 
Glenfadden, with their attendants, con- 
ducted by LoRNE, and followed by a crowd of 
Campbells^ who range themselves on both 
sides. 

Lome, (to Maclean.J Now, chieftain, we 
the gate have pass'd, — the bound 

That did restrain us. Host and guest no 
more, 

But deadly foes we stand, who from this 
spot 

Shall never both with life depart. Now, 

And boldly say to him, if so thou darest. 

Who calls thee villain, murd'rer, traitor, cow- 
ard, 

That he belies thee. Turn then. Chief of 
Mull! 

Here, man to man my single arm to thine, 

1 give thee battle ; or, refusing this, 
Our captive here retain thee, to be tried 
Before the summon'd vassals of our clans, 
As suits thy rank and thine atrocious deeds. 
Take thou thy choice. 

Mac. Yes, John of Lome, I turn. 
This turf on which we tread my death-bed is ; 
This hour my latest term ; this sjsy of light 
The last that I shall look on. Draw thy 

sword : 
The guilt of many crimes o'erwhelms my 

spirit ; 
But never will I shame my brave Macleans, 
By dying, as their chief, a coward's death. 
Ben. What ! shalt thou fight alone, and we 

stand by 



Idly to look upon it .'' (going up fiercely to 

Lome.) Turn me out 
The boldest, brawniest Campbell of your 

bands ; 
Aye, more than one, as many as you will ; 
And I the while, albeit these locks be grey. 
Leaning my aged back against this tree, 
Will show your youngsters how, in other 

days, 
Macleans did fight, when baited round with 

foes. 
Lome. Be still, Benlora ; other sword than 

these, 
Thy chief's and mine, shall not this day be 

drawn. 
If I prevail against him, here with us 
Our captives you remain. If 1 am conquer'd, 
Upon the faith and honour of a chieftain, 
Ye shall again to Mull in safety go. 
Ben. Spoke like a noble chieftain ! 
Lome. Ye shall, I say, to Mull in safety 

go- 
But there prepare ye to defend your coast 
Against a liost of many thousand Campbells ; 
In which, be well assured, swords as good 
As John of Lome's, to better fortune join'd, 
Shall of your crimes a noble vengeance 

take . 

(Lome and Maclean /o/t< ; and after a combat 
of some length, Maclean is 7nortalhj loound- 
ed, and the Campbell's give a loud shout.) 
Mac. It is enough, brave Lome ; this 
wound is death : 
And better deed thou could'st not do upon me, 
Than rid me of a life disgraced and wretched. 
But guilty though I be, thou see'st full well, 
That to the brave opposed, arms in hand, 
I am no coward. — Oh 1 could I as bravely, 
In home-rais'd broils, with violent men iiave 

strove. 
It had been well : but there, alas ! I proved 
A poor, irresolute, and nerveless wretch. 

(after a pause and struggling for breath.) 
To live, alas I in good men's memories 
Detested and contemn'd : — to be with her 

For whom I thought to be Come, gloomy 

grave ! 
Thou cover'st all ! 

(after another painful struggle, every one stand- 
ing in deep silence round him, and Lome 
bending over him compassionately.) 
Pardon of man I ask not, 
And merit not — brave Lome I ask it not; 
Though in thy piteous eye a look I see 

That might embolden me. There is above 

One who doth know the weakness of our na- 
ture, — 
Our thoughts and conflicts :— All that e'er 

have breathed ; 
The bann'd and bless'd must pass to him : — 

my soul 
Into his hands, in humble penitence, 
I do commit. (dicn.) 

Lome. And may Heaven pardon thee, un 
happy man I 



48» 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



Enter Argyll, and Helen following him, at- 
tended by Rosa. 

Lome, {to attendants.) Alas, prevent her ! 
(endeavouring to keep her hack.) 
Helen, come not hither : This is no sight for 
thee. 
Helen, (pressing forward and seeing the ho- 
d,j.) 
Oh ! oh ! and hast thou dealt with him so 

quickly, 
Thou fell and ruthless Lome .' — no time al- 
low'd ! — (kneeling hij the body.) 

O that within that form sense still were lodar- 

ed! _ 

To hear my voice, — to know that in my 
heart 

No thought of thee Let others scan thy 

deeds, 
Pitied and pardon'd art thou here. {Iter hand 

on her breast.) Alas ! 
So quickly fell on thee th' avenging stroke ! 
No sound of peace came to thy dying ear. 
No look of pity to thy closing eyes 1 
Pitied and paj-don'd art thou in this breast. 
But canst not know it now. — Alas ! alas ! 
Jlrg. (to attendants.) Prepare ye speedily to 
move the body. 
Mean time, our prisoners within the castle 
Secure ye well. 

( To other attendants who lay hold of Lochta- 
rish and Glenfadden, jchile Benlura, draic- 
ing his sword, attacks furiously those who 
attempt to seize and disarm him, and they, 
closing round and endeavouring to overpow- 
er him, he is mortally loounded in the scuf- 
fle.) 

Ben. Ay, bear me now within your prison 
walls : 
Alive, indeed, thought ye to bind me ? No. 
Two years within your dungeons have I lived, 
But lived for vengeance : closed that hope, 

the eartii 
Close o'er me too I — alive to bind Benlora ! 

(falls.) 
Lome, (running up to him.) Ha I have ye 
slain him ? — fierce and warlike spir- 
it ! 
I'm glad that thou hast had a soldier's 

death, 
Arms in thy hands, all savage as thou art. 

(turning to Lochtarish and Glenfadden.) 
But thou, the artful, base, contriving vil- 
lain. 
Who hast of an atrocious, devilish act 
Tile mover been, and this thy vUe associate. 
Prepare ye for the villain's shameful end. 
Ye have so dearly earn'd. 
(Waving Ins hand for the attendants to lead 
them off.) 

Loch. Be not so hasty, Lome. — Think'st 
thou indeed 
Ye have us here within your grasp, and 

nought 
Of hostage or security retaind for our pro- 
tection ? 
Lome. What dost thou mean .•" 



Loch. Deal with us as ye will : 
But if within a week,return'd to Mull, 
In safety L appear not, with his blood, 
The helpless heir, thy sister's infant son. 
Who in my mother's house our pledge is 

kept. 
Must pay the forfeit. 

Hel. (starting up from the body in an agony 
of alarm.) 
O horrible ! ye will not murder him .' 
Murder a harmless infant ! 

Loch. My aged mother, lady, loves her son 
As thou dost thine ; and she has sworn to do 
it. 
Hel. Has sworn to do it ! Oh ! her ruthless 
nature 
Too well I know, (to Lome eagerly.) Loose 
them, and let them go. 
Lome. Let fiends like these escape ? — 
£rg. (to Helen ) He does but threaten 
To move our fears : they dare not slay the 
child. 
HeL They dare ! they will !— O if thou art 
my father ! 
If nature's band e'er twined me to thy heart 
As this poor child to mine, have pity on rae ! 
Loose them and let them go I — nay, do it 
quickly. 

what is vengeance ! spare my infant's life. 
Unpitying Lome ! art thou a brother too .' 
The hapless father's blood is on tiiy sword. 
And wilt thou slay the child ! O spare him ! 

spare him ! 
(Kneeling to Argyll and Lome, 2cho stand ir- 
resolute, when enter Sir Hubert De Grey, 
carrying something in his arms, wrapped up 
in a mantle, and folloiocd by Morton — On 
seeing Sir Hubert, she springs from the 
ground, and rushes forward to him.) 
Ha ! art tliou here ? in blessed hour return'd 
To join thy prayers with mine, — to move their 

hearts — 
Their flinty hearts ; — to bid them spare my 
child ! 
De Grey, (lifting up the mantle and show- 
ing a slci ping child.) 
The prayer is heard already : look thou here 
Beneath this mantle where he soundly sleeps. 
(Helen utters a cry of joy, and holds out her 
arms for the child, but at the same time sinks 
to the ground, embracing the knees of Sir 
Hubert — Argyll and l^orne run up to him, 
and all their Vassals, &i-c. crowding round, 
close them about on every side, white a gene- 
ral murmur of exultation is heard through 
the whole — Lochtarish and Glenfadden, 
loith those icho guard them, are struck with 
astonishment and consternation.) 
Arg. (to those who guard Lochtarish, «fec. 
stepping fortcard from the crowd.) 
Lead to the grated keep your prisoners, 
There to abide their doom. Upon the guilty 
Our vengeance falls, and only on the guilty, 
To all their clan besides, in which I know 
Full many a gallant jieart included is, 

1 still extend a hand of amity. 

If they reject it, fair and open war 



THE FAMILY LEGEND. 



489 



Between us be : and trust we still to find 

them 
The noble, brave Macleans, the valiant foes, 
That, ere the dark ambition of a villain, 
For wicked ends, their gallant minds had 

warp'd. 
We heretofore have found them. O that men 
In blood so near, in country, and in valour, 
Should spend in petty broils their manly 

strength, 
That might, united for the public weal, 
On foreign foes such noble service do ! 
O that the day were come when gazing 

southron. 
Whilst these our mountain warriors, mar- 
shalled forth 
To meet in foreign climes their country's 

foes, 
Along their crowded cities slowly march. 
To sound of warlike pipe, their plaided bands, 
Shall say, with eager fingers pointing thus, 
" Behold those men ! — their sunn'd but 

thoughtful brows : 
Their sinewy limbs; their broad and portly 

chests, 
Lapp'd in their native vestments, rude but 

graceful I — 
Those be our hardy brothers of the north ; — 
The bold and generous race, who have, be- 
neath 
The frozen circle and the burning line, 
The rights and freedom of our native land 
Undauntedly maintain'd." Come that day 

will. 
When in the grave this hoary head of mine, 
And many after heads, in death are laid ; 
And happier men, our sons, shall live to see 

it. 
O may they prize it too with grateful hearts ! 
And, looking back on these our stormy days 
Of other years, pity, admire, and pardon 
The fierce, contentious, ill-directed valour 
Of gallant fathers, born in darker times. 



EPILOGUE. 



WRITTEN BY HENRV MACKENZIE, ESQ. 

Well ! here I am, those scenes of sufF'ring 
o'er. 
Safe among you, " a widowed thing" no 

more ; 
And though some squeamish critics still con- 
tend. 
That not so soon the tragic tone should end. 
Nor flippant epilogue, with smiling face, 
Elbow her serious sister from the place ; 
I stand prepared with precedent and custom. 
To plead the adverse doctrine — wont you 

trust 'em .'' 
I think you will, and now the curtain's down, 
Unbend your brows, nor on my prattle 
frown. 
You've seen how, in our country's ruder 

61 



Our moody Lords would let their Vassals rage» 
And while they drove men's herds, and burnt 

their houses. 
To some lone isle condemn'd their own poor 

spouses ; 
Their portion — drowning when the tide 

should serve ; 
Their separate aliment — a leave to starve ; 
And for the Scottish rights of Dower and 

Tierce, 
A deep sea burial, and an empty hearse. 

Such was of old the fuss about this matter ; 
In our good times 'tis managed greatly bet- 
ter ; 
When modern ladies part with modern lords, 
Their business no such tragic tale affords ; 
Their" Family Legends," in the C/iarter-chest, 
In deeds of ink, not deeds of blood, consist; 
In place of ruffians ambushed in the dark. 
Comes, with his pen, a harmless lawyer's 

clerk. 
Draws a long — bond, my lady packs her 

things. 
And leaves her mate to smoothe his rufiled 

wings. 
In the free code of first enlighten'd France, 
Marriage was broke for want of convenance ; 
No fault to find, no grievances to tell, 
But, like tight shoes, they did not Jit quite 

well. 
The lady curt'sied, with " Adieu, Monsieur," 
The husband bow'd, or shrugg'd " </e tout 

man coeur !" 
"L'affaire estfaite;" each partner free to range, 
Made life a dance, and every dance a change. 
In England's colder soil they scarce con- 
trive 
To keep these foreign freedom-plants alive ; 
Yet in some gay parterres we've seen, ev'n 

there. 
Its blushing fruit this frail exotic bear: — 
Couples make shift to shp the marriage chain. 
Cross hands — cast off — and are themselves 
again. {bell rings.) 

But, soft ! I hear the Prompter's summons 

rung. 
That calls me off, and stops my idle tongue ; 
A sage, our fair and virtuous Author's friend, 
Shakes his stern head, and bids my nonsense 

end; — 
Bids me declare, she hopes her parent land 
May long this current of the times withstand ; 
That here, in purity and honour bred, 
Shall love and duty wreath the nuptial bed ; 
The brave good husband, and his faitliful 

wife, 
Revere the sacred charities of life ; 
And bid their children, like the sires of old. 
Firm, honest, upright, for their country bold. 
Here, where " Rome's eagles found unvan- 

quished foes," 
The Gallic vulture fearlessly oppose, 
Chase from this favoured isle, with bafiled 

wing. 
Bless'din its good old laws, old manners, and 
old King. 



METRICAL LEGENDS 



EXALTED CHARACTERS, 



PREFACE. 



In calling the following pieces Metrical Le- 
gends, I do not use the term as denoting fic- 
titious stories, but as chronicles or memorials. 
The acts of great men, as related in history, 
are so blended with the events of the times in 
which they lived, and with the acts of their 
contemporaries, tJiat it is difficult for a great 
proportion of readers to form, at the conclu- 
sion of the history, a distinct idea of all they 
have really performed : and even of those 
who might do so without difficulty, how few 
bestow their leisure in fairly considering those 
claims of the great and the good to their 
respect and admiration ! Biography, where 
sources of information regarding the private 
character and habits of the individual remain, 
has made amends for this unavoidable defect 
in history, and is a most instructive and in- 
teresting study. Yet the minute detail of the 
character too often does the same injury to 
the departed Great, which a familiar acquain- 
tance still oftener does to the living ; for a 
lengthened, unrelieved account is very un- 
favourable to that rousing and generous ad- 
miration which the more simple and distant 
view of heroic worth is fitted to inspire ; — an 
impulse most healthful and invigorating to 
the soul. 

Romance, in verse and in prose, has, and 
often successfully, attempted to supply those 
deficiencies, by adding abundance of fictitious 
circumstances to the traces of history and bi- 
ography — a task pleasing to the writer and the 
reader. But in her zeal to display the ab- 
stract perfections of a hero, she has not rested 
satisfied with additions ; she has boldly and 
unwarrantably made use of absolute contra- 
dictions to those traces, even when generally 
known and well authenticated. This is the 
greatest injury to the Mighty Dead. It is 
throwing over the venerated form of a majes- 
tic man, a gauzy veil, on which is delineated 
the fanciful figure of an angel If time has 
removed that form to such a distance, that a 
faint outline only can be perceived, let us 
still behold the outline unshaded and unciiang- 
ed. " Disturb not the ashes of the dead," is a 
sentiment acknowledged and obeyed by every 
feeling mind ; but to disturb those memorials 
of worth — those shadowings of the soul — what 
may be called their intellectual remains, is by 
far the greatest sacrilege. 

My reader must not, however, suppose that 
I would debar romance from the use of every 
real name, and oblige her to people her stories 
entirely with beings fictitious both in name 
and character. This would be too rigid. 
Where history is so obscure or remote, that 
we know little of a hero but his name, the ro- 



mance writer may seize it as lawful spoil ; for 
he cannot thereby confuse our ideas of truth 
and falsehood, or change and defbrni what has 
no form. It is only when a character known, 
though imperfectly, is wrested from the events 
with which it was really connected, and over- 
laid at the same time with fanciful attributes, 
that this can be justly complained of 

Having this view of the subject in my 
mind, and a great desire, notwithstanding, to 
pay some tribute to the memory of a few char- 
acters for whom I felt a peculiar admiration 
and respect, I have ventured upon what may 
be considered, in some degree, as a new at- 
tempt, — to give a short descriptive chronicle 
of those noble beings, whose existence has 
honoured human nature and benefited man- 
kind. 

In relating a true story, though we do not 
add any events or material circumstances to 
it, and abstain from attributing any motives 
for action, which have not been credibly re- 
ported, or may not be fairly inferred, yet, how 
often do we spontaneously, almost unwitting- 
ly, add description similar to what we know 
must have belonged to the actors and scenery 
of our story! Our story, for instance, says, 
"that a man, travelling at night through a 
wild forest, was attacked by a band of rob- 
bers." Our story-teller adds, " that the night 
was dark as pitch, scarcely a star to be seen 
twinkling between the drifted clouds ; that 
the blast shook the trees, and howled dis- 
mally around him." Our story says, " that 
hearing the sound of approaching steps, he 
went behind a tree to wait till the robbers 
should pass, but unfortunately stumbling, the 
noise of his fall betrayed him, and he was 
seized upon, wounded, and stripped of every 
thing he possessed." Our story-teller adds, 
(particularly if the subject of the story is 
known to be of a timid spirit,) " that their 
footsteps sounded along the hollow ground 
like the trampling of a host ; that he stopped 
and listened with fearful anxiety ; that, on 
their nearer approach, voices were mingled 
with the sound, like the hoarse deep accents 
of a murderer ; that he trembled with fear ; 
that, in quitting the path, every black stump 
or bush seemed to him a man in armour ; 
that his limbs shook so violently, he could 
not raise his feet sufficiently to disentangle 
them from the fern and long grass which im- 
peded him," &c. Or our story may >say, " that 
the daughter of a proud chief stole ti-om his 
castle on a summer morning, and joined her 
expecting lover in a neighbouring wood. ' ' The 
story-teller says, ' she opened the door of her 
chamber with a beating heart, listened anx- 



4yi 



PREFACE. 



iously lest any one should bo a-stir in tlie 
I'amily ; that the sun shone softly through 
Ihi; ruddy air, on the i'resh green houghs and 
dowy-webbed plants as she passed, and that 
siie sighed to think she might never return to 
tiic hainits of Iier childhood any more." The 
s'^or}- says, " she fled with him on horseback; " 
and the story-teller cannot well say less than, 
" that he set her on a beautiful steed, which 
stood ready caparisoned under the trees; that 
the voice of her lover gave her courage ; that 
they passed over the silent country, in which 
not even a peasant was to be seen at his early 
labour, with the swiftness of an arrow, and 
every stream they crossed gave them confi- 
dence of escaping pursuit," &c. And thus 
our story-teller goes on, being present in im- 
agination to every thing he relates, and de- 
scribing the feelings, sounds, and appearances 
which he conceives must naturally have ac- 
companied the different events of his story, 
almost, as I said before, without bemg aware 
that he is taking so mucii of what he relates 
entirely for granted. 

In imitation then of this human propen- 
sity, from which we derive so much pleasure, 
though mischievous, when not indulged with 
charity and moderation, I liave written the 
following Metrical Legends, describing such 
scenes as truly belong to my story, with oc- 
casionally the feelings, figures, and gestures 
of those whose actions tJiey relate, and also 
assigning their motives of action, as they may 
naturally be supposed to have existed. 

The events tiiey record are taken from 
sources sulBciently authentic ; and where 
any thing has been reasonably questioned, I 
give some notice of the doubt. 1 have endeav- 
oured to give them with the brief simplicity 
of a chronicle, though fiequently stopping in 
my course, where occasinn for reflection or 
remark naturally oiiered itself, or proceeding 
more slowly, when objects, capable of inter- 
esting or pleasing description tempted me to 
linger. Though my great desire has been to 
display such portraitures of real worth and 
noble heroissn, as might awaken high and 
generous feelings in a youthful mind; yet I 
liave not, as far as I knov.r, imputed to my 
heroes motives or sentiments beyond what 
tlieir noble deeds do fairly warrant. 1 have 
made each Legend short enough to be read 
in one moderate sitting, that tlie impression 
might be undivided, and that the weariness 
of a story, not varied or enriched by minuter 
circumstances, might be, if possible, avoided. 
— it has, in short, been my aim to produce 
sentimental and descriptive memorials of ex- 
alted worth. 

The manner of the rhyme and versification 
I have, in some degree, borrowed from my 
great contemporary Sir Walter Scott ; follow- 
ing in this respect, the example of many of 
the most popular poets of the present day. 
Let it not, however, be supposed, that I pre- 
sume to believe myself a successful borrower. 
We often stretch out our hand for one thing, 



and catch another ; and if, instead of the easy, 
light, rich, and fanciful variety of his rhyme 
and measure, the reader should perceive that 
I liave, unfortunately, found others of a far 
diflerent character, 1 ought not to be greatly 
surprised or offended. But, indeed, I have 
been almost forced to be thus presumptuous; 
for blank verse, or heroic rhyme, being grave 
and uniform in themselves, require a story 
varied with many circumstances, and would 
only have added to the dryness of a chronicle, 
even though executed with a skill which 1 
pretend not to possess. Yet, when I say that 
[ have borrowed, let it not be supposed I have 
attempted to imitate his particular expres- 
sions ; I have only attempted to write in a 
certain free irregular measure, which, but 
for him, I should probably never have known 
or admired. 

These days are rich in Poets, whose fertile- 
imaginations have been chiefly emp]o3'ed in 
national or Eastern romance ; the one abound- 
ing in variety of character, event, and descrip- 
tion of familiar or grand objects, and enli- 
vened with natural feelings and passions ; the 
other, decorated with more artificial and lux- 
urious description, and animated with exag- 
gerated and morbid emotions, each in its own 
way continually exciting the interest and 
curiosity of the reader, and leading him on 
through a paradise of fairy-land. In these 
days, therefore. Legends of real events, and 
characters already known to the world, even 
though animated with a v.^armth of sentiment, 
and vividness of description far exceeding my 
ability to give, have not the same chance for 
popularity which they might formerly have 
had. I own this, and am willing unrepining- 
ly to submit to disadvantages which iirise 
from such a delightful cause. For who would 
wish, were it possible, to remove such an im- 
pediment for his own convenience ! It is bet- 
ter to take a humble place with such contem- 
poraries, than to stand distinguished in a des- 
ert place. 1 only mention this circumstance 
to bespeak some consideration and indulgence 
from readers accustomed to such intoxicating 
entertainment. 

The hero of ray first Legend is one, at the 
sound of whose name some sensation of pride 
and of gratitude passes over every Scottisii 
heart. He belongs indeed to the '■ land of the 
mountain and the flood," which, till of later 
years, was considered by her more fertile 
neighbour as a land of poverty and barrenness: 
but the generous devotedness of a true pat- 
riot connects him with the noblest feelings of 
all mankind ; or if the contemplation of that 
excellence be more circumscribed, the feeling 
in his countrymen which arises from it, is for 
that very reason the deeper and the dearer. 
The circumstances of the times whicli followed 
him,— the continuance of Edward's power in 
Scotland, destroyed, many years after, by the 
wisdom and perseverance of a most gallant 
and popular king, has made the name of Wal- 
lace occur but seldom in the regular histories 



PREFACE. 



495 



of Scotland, while his great actions are men- 
tioned so carelessly and briefly, tliat we read 
them with disappointnjent and regret. But 
when we remember, that, from being the 
younger son of a private gentleman of small 
consideration, lie became the military leader 
and governor of the whole nation, whose 
hereditary chieftains, accustomed to lead their 
clans to battle, were both proud and numer- 
ous, we may well suppose that all related of 
him by his friend and contemporary, Blair, 
which makes the substance of the blind 
Minstrel's poem, is true ; or, at least, if not 
entirely correct, does not exceed the truth. 

The mixture of fiction which is found in it, 
forms no reasonable objection to receiving 
those details that are probable and coincide 
with general history and the character and 
circumstances of the times. To raise his 
country from the oppression which her no- 
bles so long and so basely endured; to make 
head against such a powerful, warlike and 
artful enemy ; to be raised by so many heredi- 
tary chiefs to be warden or protector of the 
realm, on whose behalf he, as a rival power, 
entered into compacts and treaties with the 
Monarch, who had England and some fair 
provinces of France under his dominion, pre- 
supposes a fortune and ability in war, joined 
with talents for governing, equal to all that 
his private historian or even tradition has as- 
cribed to him. We may smile at the won- 
derful feats of strength related of him by 
Blind Harry, and traditionally received over 
the whole country ; but when we consider 
that his personal acts, when still very young, 
are the only reason that can be given for at- 
tracting so many followers to his command, 
we must believe that his lofty soul and pow- 
erful intellect were united to a body of ex- 
traordinary strength and activity. Wallace 
Wight, or the Strong, is the appellation by 
which he is distinguished in his own country ; 
and the romantic adventures of a Robin Hood 
are by tradition fondly joined to the mighty 
acts of Scotland's triumphant deliverer. 

His character and story are in ever}' point 
of view particularly fitted either for poetry or 
romance ; yet, till very lately, he has not been 
the subject, as far as 1 know, of any modern 
pen. Wallace, or the Field of Falkirk, writ- 
ten in nervous and harmonious verse, by a 
genius particularly successful in describing 
the warlike manners and deeds of ancient 
times, and in mixing the rougher qualities of 
the veteran leader with the supposed tender- 
ness of a lover, is a poem that does honour to 
its author and to the subject she has chosen. 
Wallace, or the Scottish Chief, which through 
a rich variety of interesting, imaginary adven- 
tures, conducts a character of most perfect 
virtue and heroism to an aifecting and tragi- 
cal end — is a romance deservedly popular. 
This tribute to the name of Wallace from two 
distinguished English women, I mention 
with pleasure, notwitliStanding all 1 have 



said against mixing true with fictitious his- 
tory.* 

Wallace, it must be owned, though sevenil 
times the deliveres of his country from the 
immediate oppression of her formidable ene- 
my, was cut off in the midst of his noble ex- 
ertions and left her in the power of Edv.ard ; 
therefore he was not, in a full sense, the de- 
liverer of Scotland, which was ultimately res- 
cued from the yoke by Robert Bruce. But 
had there been no Wallace to precede him, 
in all human likelihood, there would have 
been no Bruce. Had it not been for the suc- 
cessful struggles of the first liero, the country, 
with her submissive nobles, would have been 
so completely subdued and permanently set- 
tled under the iron )'oke of Edward, that the 
second would never have conceived the possi- 
bility of recovering its independence I'iie 
example set by Wallace, and the noble spirit 
he had breathed into his countrymen, were a 
preparation — one ma}' almost say, the moral 
implements by which the valiant and perse- 
vering Bruce accomplished his glorious task. 

The reader, perhaps, will smile at the ear- 
nestness with which i estimate the advantage 
of having been rescued from the domination 
of Edvi/ard, now, when England and Scotland 
are happily united: makingone powerful and 
generous nation, which hath nobly maintain- 
ed, for so many generations, a degree cf ra- 
tional liberty, under the form of a limited mon- 
archy, hitherto enjoyed by no other people. 
But when we recollect the treatment which 
Ireland received as a conquered country and 
of which she in some degree still feels the 
baneful effects, we shall acknov/ledge, with 
gratitude, the blessing of having been united 
to England under far difterent circumstances. 
Nay, it may not, perhaps, be estimating the 
noble acts of William Wallace at an extrava- 
gant rate to believe, that England as well as 
Scotland, under Divine Providence, may owe 
its liberty to him : for, had the English crown, 
at so early a period, acquired such an acces- 
sion of power, it would probably, like the 
other great crowns of Europe, have establish- 
ed for itself a despotism which could not have 
been shaken. 

In comparing the two great heroes of that 
period, it should always be remembered, that 
Bruce fought for Scotland and her crown con- 
joined ; Wallace, for Scotland alone ; no 
Chronicler or Plistorian, either English or 
Scotch, having ever imputed to him any but 
the purest and most disinterested motives for 
his unwearied and glorious exertions. 

* Since the above observations were written, 
Mrs. Heman's prize-poem, nn the given subject 
of the meeting between Wallace and Bruce on 
the banks cf Carron, has appeared, witli its fair- 
won honours on its brow ; and there is a Play on 
the life of our hero, from the pen of a very voung 
and promising dramatist, which is at present re- 
presented with success on tlie stage of Covont 
Garden. 



4»6 



PREFACE. 



The hero of my second Legend is Colum- 
bus; who, to tlio unfettered reacli of thought 
belonging to a Philosopher, the sagacious in- 
trepidity of a chieftain or leader, and the ad- 
venturous boldness of a discoverer, added the 
gentleness and humanity of a Christian. For 
the first and last of these qualities he stands 
distinguished from all those enterprisino'chiefs 
who followed his stops. The greatest" event 
in tile history of Columbus takes place at the 
beginning, occasioning so strong an excite- 
ment tiiat what follows after, as immediately 
connected with him, (his persecution and suf- 
ferings excepted,) are comparatively flat and 
iminteresting ; and then it is our curiosity re- 
garding the inhabitants and productions of 
the new world that chiefly occupy our atten- 
tion. Landing on some new coast ; receiv- 
ing visits from the Indians and their Caziques ; 
bartering beads and trinkets for gold or pro- 
visions, under circumstances similar to those 
attending his intercourse with so many other 
places ; nautical observations, and continued 
mutinies and vexations arising from tjie ava- 
rice and ambition of his officers, are the 
changes continually recurring. His history, 
therefore, circumstantially, ratlier obscures 
than displays his greatness ; the outline being 
so grand and simple, tlie detail so unvaried 
and minute. The bloody, nefarious, and suc- 
cessful adventures of Cortes and Pizarro, keep 
their heroes (great men of a more vulgar cast,) 
constantly in possession of the reader's atten- 
tion, and have rendered them favourable sub- 
jects of history, tragedy, and romance. But 
the great consequences and change in human 
affairs which flowed from the astonishing en- 
terprise of Columbus, have made his existence 
as one of the loftiest landmarks in the route of 
time. And he is a hero who may be said to 
have belonged to no particular country ; for 
every nation has felt the effects of his power- 
ful mind ; and every nation, in the days at 
least in which he lived, wasunworthy of him. 
This, notwithstanding these poetical defects 
in his story, has prevented him fr6m being 
neglected by poets. The first epic poem pro" 
duced in the continent which he discovered, 
has, with great propriety, Columbus for its 
hero; and fragments of a poem on the same 
noble subject, published some years ao-o in 
this country, have given us cause to regret, 
that the too great fastidiousness of the author 
should have induced him to publish fragments 
only : a fastidiousness which, on this occa- 
sion, had been better employed, as such a dis- 
position mostcommonly is, against others and 
not himself. 

The subject of my third Legend is a wo- 
nian, and one whose name is unknown in 
history. It was indeed unknown to myself 
till the publication of Mr. Rose's answer to 
Fox's History of James II , in the notes to 
which work a very interesting account of her 
■will be found, given in extracts from Lady 
Murray's narrative, a MS. hitherto unpub- 
lished. My ignorance regarding her is the 



more extraordinary, as she married into a 
family of my own name, from which it is sup- 
posed, my forefathers took their descent ; one 
of my ancestors also being the friend of that 
Baillie of Jerviswood, who suffered for the 
religion and independence of his country, and 
engaged in the same noble cause which 
obliged him, about the time of Jerviswood's 
death, to fly from Scotland and spend several 
years in a foreign land. Had her character, 
claiming even this very distant and slight 
connection with it, been known to me in my 
youthful days, I might have suspected that 
early association had something to do in the 
great admiration with which it has inspired 
me ; but becoming first acquainted with it 
when the season of ardour and enthusiasm is 
past, I believe I may be acquitted from all 
charge of partiality. It appears to me that a 
more perfect female character could scarcely 
be imagined ; for while she is daily exercised 
in all that is useful, enlivening and endearing, 
her wisdom and courage on every extraordi- 
nary and difficult occasion, give a full assur- 
ance to the mind, that the devoted daughter 
of Sir Patrick Hume, and the tender help- 
mate of Baillie, would have made a mostable 
and magnanimous queen. 

The account we have of her is given by her 
own children ; but there is a harmonious con- 
sistency, and an internal evidence of truth 
through the whole of it, which forbids us to 
doubt. At any rate, the leading and most 
singular events of her life, mentioned in the 
inscription on her tomb, from the pen of Judge 
Burnet, must be true. But after having writ- 
ten the Legend from Mr. Rose's notes alone, 
I have been fortunate enough to see the orig- 
inal work from which they were taken ; and, 
availing myself of this advantage, have added 
some passages to it which I thought would 
increase the interest of the whole, and set the 
character of the heroine in a still more favour- 
able light. For this I am indebted to the 
kindness and liberality of Thomas Thomson, 
Esq. keeper of the Registers, Edinburgh, who 
will, I hope, be induced, ere long, to give 
such a curious and interesting manuscript to 
the public. 

I might have selected for my heroine, wo- 
men who, in high situations of trust, as sover- 
eigns, regents, and temporary governors of 
towns, castles, or provinces, and even at the 
head of armies, have behaved with a wisdom 
and courage that would have been honour- 
able for the noblest of the other sex. But to 
vindicate female courage and abilities has not 
been my aim. I wished to exhibit a perfec- 
tion of character which is peculiar to woman, 
and makes her, in the family that is blessed 
with such an inmate, through every vicissi- 
tude of prospeiity and distress, something 
which man can never be. He may indeed 
be. and often is, as tender and full of gentle 
offices as a woman ; and she may be, and has 
often been found, on great occasions, as coura- 
geous, firm, and enterprising, as a man ; but 



PREFACE TO WILLIAM WALLACE. 



497 



the character of both will be most admired 
when tliese qualities cross them but tran- 
siently, like passing gleams of sunshine in a 
stormy day, and do not make the prevailing- 
attribute of either. A man seldom becomes a 
careful and gentle nurse, but wlien actuated 
by strong affection ; a woman is seldom 
roused to great and courageous exertion but 
when something most dear to her is in imme- 
diate danger : reverse the matter, and you de- 
form the fair seemliness of bath. It is from 
this general impression of their respective 
natures that tenderness in man is so pathetic, 
and valour in woman so sublime. A wise and 
benevolent Providence hath made them par- 
take of each other's more peculiar qualities, 
that they may be meet and rational compan- 
ions to one another — that man may be beloved, 
and woman regarded with respect. 

Wliat has been considered as the jealousy 
of man lest woman should become his rival, 
is founded, I believe, on a very different prin- 
ciple. In regard to mental acquirements of 
an abstruse or difficult kind, though a pretty 
general disapprobation of them, when found 
in the .possession of women, is felt, and too 
often expressed in illiberal and unworthy 
phrase, yet, I apprehend, that had these been 
supposed to be cultivated without interfering 
with domestic duties, no prejudice would ev- 
er have been entertained against them. To 
neglect useful and appropriate occupations, 
for those which may be supposed to be con- 
nected witii vanity, rather than with any oth- 
er gratification, is always offensive. But if a 
woman possess that strong natural bent for 
learning whicli enables her to acquire it quick- 
ly, without prejudice to what is more neces- 
sary ; or if her fortune be so ample that the 
greater part of her time reasonably remains at 
her own disposal, there are few men, I be- 
lieve, who will be disposed to find fault with 
her for all that she may know, provided slie 
make no vain display of lier acquirements ; 
and amongst tiiose few, I will venture to say, 
there will not be one truly learned man to be 
found. Were learning chiefly confined to 
gownsmen, a country gentleman, vvlio neg- 
lected his affairs and his iiusbandry to study 
the dead languages, would meet with as little 
quarter as sJie who is tauntingly called a 
learned lady. But as every one in the rank 
of a gentleman is obliged to spend so many 
years of his youth in learning Latin and 
Greek, whatever may be his natural bias or 
destined profession, he is never ridiculed, un- 
der any circumstances, for pursuing that 
which has already cost him so much labour. 
Women have this desirable privilege over 
the other sex, that they may be unlearned 
without any inqslied inferiority ; and I hope 
our modern zeal for education will never pro- 
ceed far enough to deprive them of this great 
advantage. At the same time they may avow- 
edly and creditably possess as much learning, 
either in science or languages, as they can 
fairly and honestly attain, the neglect of more 
62 



necessary occupations being here considered 
as approaching to a real breach of rectitude. 

'• My helpful child ! " was the fond and 
grateful appellation bestowed upon our hero- 
ine, with her mother's dying blessing ; i^nd 
could the daughters of every family conceive 
the self-approbation and happiness of cheerful 
and useful occupation, the love of God and 
favour of man which is earned by this blessed 
character of helpfulness, how much vanity 
and weariness, and disappointment, and dis- 
content, would be banished from many a 
prosperous home ! " It is more blessed to 
minister than bo ministered unto," said the 
most perfect character that ever appeared in 
human form. Could any young person of 
ever such a listless or idle disposition, not 
entirely debased by selfishness, read, in the 
narrative alluded to, of the different occupa- 
tions of Lady Griseld Baillie and a sister of 
hers, nearly of her own age, whose time was 
mostly spent in reading or pla3'ing on a mu- 
sical mstrument, and wish for one moment to 
have been the last mentioned lady, rather 
than the otiier .'' 

But in preferring a heroine ot this class for 
my Legend, 1 encountered a difficulty which , 
I fear, I have not been able to overcame ; the 
want of events, and the most striking circum- 
stance of the story belonging to the earlier 
part of it, while the familiar domestic details 
of her life, which so faithfully reveal the 
sweetest traits of her character, are associated 
in our imaginations with what is considered 
as vulgar and mean. I have endeavoured by 
the selection I have made of things to be no- 
ticed, and in the expressions which convey 
them to the fancy, to offend, as little as migiit 
be, the fastidious reader ; and I beg that he 
will on his part receive it with indulgence. 

Of the few sliorter pieces, contained in this 
small volume, I have little to say. The two 
first were originally written very rapidly for 
the amusement of a young friend, who was 
fond of frightful stories ; but I have since en- 
deavoured to correct some of the defects aris- 
ing from hasty composition. The third is 
taken from a true, or at least traditional story. 
It was told to me by Sir George Beaumont, 
as one which he had heard from his mother, 
the late Lady Beaumont, who said it was a 
tradition belonging to the castle of some Baron 
in the north of England, where it was believ- 
ed to have happened. It was recommended 
by him as a good subject for a ballad, and, 
with such a recommendation, I was easily 
tempted to endeavour, at least, to preserve its 
simple and striking circumstances, in that 
popular form. I have altered nothing of the 
story, nor have I added anything but the 
founding of the abbey and the Baron's becom- 
ing a monk, in imitation of the ending of tliat 
exquisite ballad, The Eve of St. John, where 
so much is implied in so few words ; tiie lorce 
and simplicity of which, I have always partic- 
ularly admired, though I readily own (and 
the reader will have too much reason to agree 



493 



PREFACE TO WILLIAM WALLACE. 



with me) that it is more easily admired than 
imitated. 

' There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 
A'e'er looks up(<n the sun; 
• There is a nionk in Melrose tower, 
He speakcth word to none. 

That nun who ne'er beholds the day, 
That monk who speaks to none, 

That nun was Smayiho'mes Lady gay. 
That monk tlie bold Baron,' 

The fourth is taken from the popular story 
of Fadon, in the Blind Minstrel's Life of 
Wallace. That the hero, in those days of su- 
perstition, and under the influence of com- 
punction for a hasty deed, might not iiave 
had some strong vision or dream, which, re- 
lated to his followers, might give rise to such 
a story, I will not pretend to say. However, 
it could not, with propriety, find a place in a 
legend which rejects fiction. Yet, thinking 



it peculiarly fitted for the subject of a myste- 
rious ballad, and being loth to lose it cntirel}', 
I have ventured to introduce it to the reader 
in its present form. Ballads of this character 
o-encraliy arrest the attention and excite some 
dbo-ree of interest. They must be very ill- 
wr/itten indeed if this fail to be the case ; and 
if some modern ballads of extraordinary pow- 
er, from a very witching pen, have not ren- 
dered the public less easy to please than tliey 
formerly were, I may hope that these produc- 
tions, slight as they are, will at least be re- 
ceived with fprbearance. 

Having now said all which, I believe, 1 
may reasonably say in explanation and behalf 
of the contents of my book, 1 leave my reader 
to peruse it, perhaps, in nearly the same dis- 
position regarding it as if i had said nothing 
at all on the subject. But I have the satis- 
faction, at least, of having endeavoured to do 
justice to myself, and shall not be condemned 
unheard. 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



I. 

Insf.nsiblk to high heroic deeds, 

Is there a spirit clotiied in mortal weeds, 

Who at the Patriot's moving story, 

Devoted to liis country's good, 

Devoted to his country's glory, 

Shedding for freemen's rights his generous 

blood ; — 
List'neth not with breath heaved high, 
Quiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye, 
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, 
That with the hero's wortli may humble 

kindred claim .'' 
If such there be, still let him plod 
On the dull foggy paths of care, 
Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 
To view creation fair : 
What boots to him the wond'rous works of 

God? 
His soul with brutal things hath ta'cn its 

earthy lair. 

II. 

Come, youths, whose eyes are forward cast 

And in the future see the past, — 

The past, as winnow'd in the early mind 

Witli husk and prickle left behind ! 

Come ; whether under lowland vest 

Or, by the mountain-tartan prest, 

Your gen'rous bosoms heave ; 

Pausing a while in thoughtful rest, 

My legend lay receive. 

Come, aged sires, who love to tell 

What fields were fought, what deeds were 

done ; 
What things in olden times befell, — 
Those good old times, whose term is run ! 
Come ye, whose manly strength with pride 
Is breasting now the present tide 
Of worldly strife, and cast aside 
A hasty glance at what hath been ! 
Come, courtly dames, in silken sheen, 
And ye, who under thatched roofs abide ; 
Yea, ev'n the barefoot child by cottage fire, 
Who doth some shreds of northern lore ac- 

qulr'j. 
By the stirr'd embers' scanty light, — 
List to my legend lay of Wallace wight. 

III. 

Scotland, with breast unmail'd, had sheath'd 

her sword, 
Stifling each rising curse and hopeless prayer, 
And sunk beneath the Southron's faithless 

lord 
In sullen, deep despair. 
The hold and castles of the land 
Were by her hateful foemen mann'd. 
To revels in each stately hall. 
Did tongues of foreign accent call. 



Where her quell'd chiefs must tamely bear 
From braggard pride the taunting jeer. 
Her harvest-fields, by strangers reap'd, 
Were in the stranger's garner heap'd. 
The tenant of the poorest cot, 
Seeing the spoiler from his door 
Bear unreproved his hard-earn'd store, 
Blush'd thus to be, and be a Scot. 
The very infant at his mother's beck, 
Tho' with writh'd lip and scowling eye. 
Was taught to keep his lisping tongue in check, 
Nor curse the Southron passing by. 

IV. 

Baron brave and girded knight, 

The tyrant's hireling slaves could be ; 

Nor graced their state, nor held their right. 

Alone upon his rocky height, 

The eagle roar'd his unstain'd crest, 

And, soaring from his cloudy nest, 

Turn'd to the sun his daring eye. 

And wing'd at will the azure sky, 

For he alone was free. 

V. 

Oh ! who so base as not to feel 
The pride of freedom once enjoy'd, 
Tho' hostile gold or hostile steel 
Have long that bliss destroy'd ! 
The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 
Of independent sires, who bore 
Names known to fanae in days of yore, 
Spite of the smiling stranger's tai7nt; 
But recent freedom lost — what heart 
Can bear the humbling thought — the quick'- 
ning, mad'ning smart ! 

YI. 

Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn, 

And their base chain in secret sjjurn ; 

And, bold upon some future day. 

Swore to assert Old Scotland's native sway ; 

But 'twas in fitful thoughts that pass'd in 

thought away. 
Tho' musing in lone cave or forest deep. 
Some generous youths might all indignant 

weep ; 
Or in the vision'd hours of sleep, 
Gird on their swords for Scotland's right, 
And from her soil the spoiler sweep, 
Yet all this bold emprise pass'd with the pass- 
ing night. 

VII. 

But in the woods of Allerslie, 
Within the walls of good Dundee, 
Or by the pleasant banks of Ayr, 
Wand'ring o'er heath or upland fair, 
E.xisted worth without alloy. 
In form a man, in years a boy. 



500 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



Wliose nightly tliouglits for Scotland's weal, 
Which clothed liis form in niimick steel, 
Which helind his brow, and glav'd his hand 
To driv(! tiie tyrant from the land, 
Pass'd not away with passing sleep; 
But did, as danger nearer drew, 
Their purpos'd bent the firmer keep, 
And still tlie bolder grew. 

VIII. 
'Tis pleasant in his early frolick feats, • 
Which fond tradition long and oft repeats. 
The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace, 
Whose bright career of fame a country's an- 
nals grace ; 
Yet this brief legend must forbear to tell 
The bold adventures that befell 
The stripling Wallace, light and strong, 
The shady woods of Clyde among. 
Where, roaring o'er its rocky wafls, 
The water's headlong torrent falls, 
Fall, rapid, powerful, flashing to the light, 
Till sunk the Ijoiling gulf beneath. 
It mounts again like snowy wreath, 
Which, scatter'd by contending blasts, 
Back to the clouds their treasure casts, 
A ceaseless wild turmoil, a grand and wond- 
rous sight ! 
Or, climbing Carthland's Craigs, that hio-h 
O'er their pent river strike the eye, '^ 

Wall above wall, half veil'd, half seen. 
The pendant folds of wood between. 
With jagged breach, and rift, and scar, 
Like the scorch'd wreck of ancient war, 
And seem, to musing fancy's gaze, 
The ruin'd holds of otlicr days" 
His native scenes, sublhne and wild. 
Where oft the youth his hours beguil'd. 
As forester witli bugle iiorn ; 
As angler in the pooly wave ; 
As fugitive in lonely cave, 
Forsaken and forlorn ! 
When still, as foeman cross'd his way, 
Alone, defenceless, or at bay, 
He raised his arm for freemen's riglit. 
And on proud robbers fell the power of Wal- 
lace wight. 

IX. 

There is a melancholy pleasure 

In tales of hapless love ;— a treasure 

From which the sadden'd bosom borrows 

A short respite from present sorrows. 

And ev'n the gay delight to feel. 

As down young cheeks the soft tears steal ; 

Yet will I not that woeful tale renew, 

And in light hasty words relate 

How the base Southron's arm a woman slew, 

And robb'd him of his wedded mate. 

The name of her, who shar'd his noble breast, 

fehall be remembor'd and be blest. 

A sweeter lay, a gentler song. 

To tiiose sad woes belono- ! " • 

X. 

As light'nin^ from some twilight cloud, 
At first but like a streaky line 



In the hush'd sky, with fitful shine 

lis unregarded brightness pours, 

Till I'mni its spreading, darkly volumed shroud 

The bursting tempest roars ; 

His countrymen with faithless gaze 

Beheld his valour's early blaze. 

XI. 

But rose at length with swelling fame 
The honours of his deathless name ; 
Till, to the country's farthest bound, 
All gen'rous hearts stirr'd at the sound; 
Then Scotland's youth with new-wak'd pride, 
Flock'd gladly to the hero's side. 
In harness braced, with burnish'd brand, 
A brave and noble band ! 

XII. 

Lenox, Douglas, Campbell, Hay, 

Boyd, Scrimger, Ruthven, Haliday, 

Gordon, Crawford, Keith, were there; 

Lauder, Lundy, Cleland, Kerr, 

Steven, Ireland's vagrant lord ; 

Newbiggen, Fraser, Rutherford, 

Dundas and Tinto, Currie, Scott; 

Nor be in this brave list forgot 

A Wallace of the hero's blood, 

With many patriots staunch and good ; 

And first, though latest nam'd, there came, 

Within his gen'rous breast to hold 

A brother's place, — true war-mate bold ! 

The good, the gallant Grapam. 

XIII. 

Thus grown to strength, on Biggar's well- 
fought field 

He made on marshall'd host his first essay ; 

Where Edward's gather'd powers, in strong 
array. 

Did to superior skill and valour yield, 

And gain'd the glorious day. 

XIV. 

Then at the forest kirk, that spot of ground 
Long to be honour'd, flush'd with victoi-y. 
Crowded the Scottish worthies, bold and free, 
Their noble chieftain round ; 
Wiiere many a generous heart beat high 
With-glowing cheek and flashing eye, 
And many a portly figure trod 
With stately steps the trampled sod. 
Banners in the wind were streaming ; 
In the inorning light were gleaming 
Sword, and spear, and burnish'd'mail, 
And crested helm, and avantail. 
And tartan plaids, of many a hue. 
In flickering sunbeams brighter grew. 
While youthful warriors' weapons ring 
With hopeful, wanton brandishing. 

XV. 

There, midmost in the warlike throng. 
Stood William Wallace, tall and strong; 
Towering far above the rest. 
With portly mien and anriplo breast, 
Brow and eye of high command. 
Visage fair, and figure grand : 



J 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



501 



Ev'n to the dullest peasant standing by, 
Who fasten'd still on him a Wondering eye, 
He seem'd the master-spirit of the land. 

XVL 

O for same magic power to give 

In vision'd form what then did live ! 

That group of heroes to pourtray, 

Who from their trammcUd country broke 

The hateful tyrant's galling yoke 

On that eventful day ! 

XVII. 

Behold ! like changeful streamers of the 

North, 
Which tinge at times the wintry night, 
With many hues of glowing light. 
Their momentary forms break forth 
To fancy's gifted sight. 
Each in his warlike panoply 
Witli sable plumage waving high. 
And burnish'd sword in sinewy hand, 
Appears a chieftain of command, 
Whose will, by look or sign to catch, 
A thousand eager vassals watch. 
What the' those warriors, gleaming round. 
On peaceful death-bed never lay, 
But each, upon his fated day. 
His end on field or scaffold found ; 
Oh ! start not at the vision briglit. 
As if it were a ghastly siglit ! 
For, 'midst their earthly coil, they knew 
Feelings of joy so keen, so true. 
As he who feels, with up-rais'd eye, 
Thanks Heaven for life, and cannot rue 
The gift, be what it may the death that he 

shall die. 

XVIII. 

Warden of Scotland, (not ashamed 
A native right of rule to own 
In worth and valour matchless shown) 
They William Wallace there proclaim'd ; 
And there, exultingly, each gallant soul, 
Ev'n proudly yielded to such high controul. 
Greater than aught a tyrant ere achiev'd, 
Was power so given, and so receiv'd. 

XIX. 

This truth full well King Edward knew, 

And back his scatter'd host he drew. 

Suing for peace with prudent guile ; 

And Wallace in his mind, the while, 

Scanning witli wary, wise debate 

The various dangers of the state. 

Desire of further high revenge foregoes 

To give the land repose. 

But smother'd hatred, in the garb of peace. 

Did not, mean time, from hostile cunning 

cease ; 
But still more cruel deeds devis'd, 
In that deceitful seeming guised. 

XX. 

The Southron rulers, phrasing fair 

Their notice, summon'd lord, and laird, and 

knight, 
To hold with them an ancient court of right, 



At the good town, so named, their court of 

Ayr. 
And at this general summons came 
The pride and hope of many a name, 
The love and anxious care of many a gentle 

dame. 

XXI. 
Ent'ring the fatal Barns, fair sight ! 
Went one by one the manly train. 
But neither baron, laird, nor knight. 
Did e'er return again. 
A heaven-commission'd friend that day 
Stopp'd Wallace, hast'ning on his way, 
(Who, by some seeming chance detain'd, 
Had later at his home remain'd,) 
The horse's bridle sternly grasp'd, 
And then for rueful utterance gasp'd. 
" Oh ! go not to the Barns of Ayr ! 
" Kindred and friends are murder'd there. 
" The faithless Southrons, one by one, 
" On them the hangman's task hath done. 
" Oh ! turn thy steed, and fearful ruin shun ! " 
He, shudd'ring, heard, with visage pale. 
Which quickly chang'd to wratli's terrific 

hue ; 
And then apace came sorrow's bursting wail ; 
The noble heart could weep that could not 

quail, 
"My friends, my kinsmen, war-mates, bold 

and true .' 
" Met ye a villain's end ! Oh is it so with 

you !" 

XXII. 
The heroturn'd his chafing steed. 
And to the wild woods bent his speed. 
But not to keep in liiding there, 
Or give his sorrow to despair. 
For the fierce tumult in his breast 
To speedy, dreadful action press'd. 
And there within a tangled glade, 
List'ning the courser's coming tread. 
With hearts that shar'd his ire and grief, 
A faithful band receiv'd their chief. 

XXIII. 

In Ayr the guilty Southrons held a feast, 
When that dire day its direful course had run, 
And laid them down, their weary limbs to rest 
Where the foul deed was done. 
But ere beneath the cottage thatch 
Cocks had crow'd the second watch ; 
When sleepers breathe in heavy plight, 
Press'd with the visions of the night. 
And spirits, from unhallow'd ground. 
Ascend, to walk tlieir silent round ; 
WJien trembles dell or desert heath. 
The witches' orgy dance beneath, — 
To the roused Warder's fearful gaze, 
The Barns of Ayr were in a blaze. 

XXIV. 

The dense, dun smoke was moimting slow 
And statel}', from tlie flaming wreck below, 
And mantling far aloft in many a volumed 

wreath ; 
Whilst town and woods, and ocean wide did 

lie. 



502 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



Tinctur'd like glowing furnace-iron, beneath 

Its awful canopy. 

Red niaz}' sparks soon with the dense smoke 

blended, 
And far around like fiery sleet descended. 
From tiie scorch'd and crackling pile 
Fierce burst tlie growing- flames the while 5 
Thro' creviced wall and buttress strong, 
Sweeping the rafter'd roofs along ; 
Which, as with sudden crash they fell, 
Their raging fierceness seeni'd to quell, 
And for a passing instant spiead 
O'er land and sea a lurid siiade ; 
Tlien with increasing brightness, high 
In spiral form, shot to the sky 
With momentary height so grand, 
That chill'd beholders breathless stand. 

XXV. 

Thus rose and fell the flaming surgy flood, 
'Till fencing round the gulphy light, 
Black, jagg'd, and bare, a fearful sight! 
Like ruin grim of former days, 
Seen 'tliwart the broad sun's setting rays, 
The guilty fabric stood. 

XXVI. 

And dreadful are t!ie deaths, I ween, 
Whicli midst that fearful wreck have been. 
Tlie pike and sword, and smoke and fire. 
Have minister'd to vengeful ire. 
New- waked wretches stood aghast 
To see the fire-flood in their rear, 
Close to their breast the pointed spear. 
And in wild horrour yell'd their last. 

XXVII. 

Bat what dark figures now emerge 

From the dread gulph and cross the liglit, 

Appearing on its fearful vertre. 

Each like an armed sprite .-' 

Whilst one above the rest doth tower, — 

A form of stern gigantic power, 

Whirling from his lofty stand 

The smould'ring stone or burning brand.' 

Those are the leagued for Scotland's native 

right. 
Whose clashing arms rang Southron's knell, 
When to their fearful work they fell, — 
That form is Wallace wight. 

XXVIII. 

And he like Heaven's impetuous blast 

Which stops not on its mission'd way. 

By early morn, in strong array. 

Onward to Glasgow past; 

Where English Piercy held the rule ; 

Too noble and too brave to be a tyrant's tool. 

A suramon'd court should there have been, 

But there far other coil was seen. 

With fellest rage, in lane and street. 

Did harness'd Scot and Southron meet ; 

Well fought and bloody was the fierce affray : 

But Piercy was by Wallace slain. 

Who put to rout liis num'rous train. 

And gain'd the town by noon of day. 



XXIX. 

Nor paused he there, for ev'ning tide 
Saw him at Bothwell's hostile gate, 
Whicli might not long assault abide, 
But yielded to its fate. 
And on from thence, with growing force, 
He held his rapid, glorious course ; 
WJiilst his roused clansmen, braced and bold, 
As town and castle, tower and hold, 
To the resistless victor fell. 
His patriot numbers swell. 
Thus when with current full and strong. 
The wintry river bears along 
Thro' mountain pass, and frith, and plain; — 
Streams that from many sources pour, 
Answer from far its kindred roar, 
And deep'ning echoes roar again. 
From its hill of heathy brown, 
The muirland streamlet hastens down; 
The mountain torrent from its rock. 
Shoots to the glen with furious shock ; 
E'en runlet low, and sluggish burn, 
Speed to their chief with many a mazy turn, 
And, in his mingled strength, roll proudly to 
the main. 

XXX. 

O'er Stirling's towers his standard plays, 
Lorn owns his rule, Argyle obeys. 
In Angus, Merns, and Aberdeen, 
Nor English Ijord nor Cerf is seen ; 
Dundee alone averts King Edward's fate. 
And Scotland's warden thunders at her gate. 

XXXI. 

But there his eager hopes are cross'd; 
For news are brought of English host, 
Which fast approaching thro' the land. 
At Stirling mean to make their stand. 
Faint speaks the haggard lireatliless scout, 
Like one escaped from bloody rout, — 
" On, Cressingham, and Warren lead 
" The marlial'd host with stalwart speed; 
" It numbers thirty thousand men, 
" And thine, bold chieftain, only ten." 

XXXII. 

But higher tower'd the chieftain's head. 
Broad grew his breast with ampler spread ; 
O'er cheek and "brow the deep flush past. 
And to high Heaven his eyes he cast; 
Right plainly spoke that silent prayer, 
" My strength and aid are there .'" 
Then look'd he round with kindly cheer 
On his brave war-mates standing near, 
Who scann'd his face with eager eye 
His secret feelings to descry. 
" Come, hearts ! who, on your native soil, 
" For Scotland's cause have bravely stood, 
" Come, brace ye for another broil, 
" And prove your generous blood. 
" Let us but front tlie tyrant's train, 
" And he who lists may count their numbers 
then." 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



503 



XXXIII. 

Nor dull of heart, nor slow were they 

Their noble Leader to obey. 

Cheer'd vvitii loud shouts he gave his prompt 

command, 
Forthwith to bound them on their way. 
And straight their eager march they take 
O'er hill and heath, o'er burn and brake, 
Till marshall'd soon in dark array. 
Upon their destin'd field of war they stand. 

XXXIV. 

Behind them lay the hardy north ; 

Before, the slowly winding Forth 

Flow'd o'er the noiseless sand ; 

Its full broad tide with fossy sides, 

Which east and west the land divides, 

By wooden bridge was spann'd. 

Beyond it, on a craggy slope. 

Whose chimney'd roofs the steep ridge cope. 

There smoked an ancient town ; 

While higher on the firm-based rock. 

Which oft had braved war's thunder-shock, 

Embattled turrets frown. 

A frith, with fields and woods, and hamlets 

gay, 
And mazy waters, slyly seen, 
Glancing thro' shades of alder green, 
Wore eastward from the sight to distance grey: 
While broomy knoll and rocky peak. 
And heathy mountains, bare and bleak, 
A lofty screen on either hand, 
Majestic rose, and grand. 

XXXV. 

Such was the field on which with dauntless 

pride 
They did their coming foe abide ; * 
Nor waited long till from afar 
Were spy'd tlieir moving ranks of war, 
Like rising storm, which, from the western 

main. 
Bears on in seried length its cloudy train ; — 
Slowly approaching on the burtiien'd wind. 
Moves each dark mass, and still another low- 
ers behind. 
And soon upon the bridge appears, 
Darkl}' rising on the light. 
Nodding plumes and pointed spears. 
And, crowding close, full many a warlike 

knight, 
Who from its narrow gorge successive pour. 
To form their ranks upon the northern shore. 

XXXVI. 

Now, with notes of practis'd skill, 
English trumpets, sounding shrill, 
Tlie battle's boastful prelude give, 
Which answer prompt and bold receive 
From Scottish drum's long rowling beat, 
And, — sound to valiant clansmen sweet ! — 
The highland pipe, whose lengthen'd swell 
Of warlike pibroch, rose and fell, 
Like wailings of the midnight wind. 
With voice of distant streams combin'd, 
While mountain, rock, and dell, the martial 
din repeat. 



XXXVII. 
Then many a high-plumed gallant rear'd his 

head, 
And proudly smote the ground with firmer 

tread. 
Who did, ere close of ev'ning, lye 
With ghastly face turn'd to the sky, 
No more again the rouse of war to hear. 
And many for the combat burn'd. 
Who never from its broil return'd, 
Kindred or home to cheer. 
How short the term that shall divide 
The firm-nerv'd youth's exerted force, — 
The warrior, glowing in his pride. 
From the cold stiffen'd corse ! 
A little term, pass'd with such speed, 
As would in courtly revel scarce suffice, 
Mated with lady fair, in silken guise, 
The measur'd dance to lead. 

XXXVIII. 

His soldiers, firm as living rock. 

Now braced them for the battle's shock : 

And watch'd their chieftain's keen looks 

glancing 
From marshall'd clans to foes advancing ; 
Smiled with the smile his eye that lighten'd, 
Glow'd with the glow his brow that bright- 

en'd : 
But when his burnish'd brand he drew. 
His towering form terrific grew. 
And every Scotchman, at the sight, 
Felt thro' his nerves a giant's might, 
And drew his patriot sword with Wallace 

wight. 

XXXIX. 

For what of thrilling sympathy, 

Did e'er in human bosom vie 

With that which stirs the soldier's breast, 

When, high in god-like wortli confess'd, 

Some noble leader gives command, 

To combat for his native land ? 

No ; friendship's freely-flowing tide. 

The soul expanding; filial pride. 

That hears with craving, tbnd desire 

The bearings of a gallant sire ; 

The yearnings of domestic bliss, 

Ev'n love itself will yield to this. 

XL. 

Few words the lofty hero utter'd, 
But deep response was widely mutter'd, ' 
Like echo'd echoes, circling round 
Some mountain lake's steep rocky bound. 

XLI. 

Then rush'd they fiercely on their foes. 

And loud o'er drum and war-pipe rose 

The battle's mingled roar. 

The eage5 shout, the weapon's clash ; 

The adverse ranks' first closing crash, 

The sullen hum of striving life, 

The busy beat of trampling strife, 

From castle, rocks, and mountains round, 

Down the long firth, a grand and awful sound, 

A thousand echoes bore. 



504 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



XLIL 

Spears cross'd spcsirs, abendintr (rove, , 
As front t(j I'ront the warriors strove. 
Thro' the dust-clouds, rishig dun, 
Their burnish'd brands flasli'd to the sun 
With quickly changing, shiv'ring light, 
Like streamers on the northern night; 
Wiiile arrow-sliowers came hurtling past, 
Like splinter'd wreck driven by the blast, 
What time fierce winter is contending. 
With Norway's pines, their branches rending. 

XLIIL 

Long penants, flags, and banners move 
The fearful strife of arms above. 
Not as display'd in colours fair, 
They floated on tiic morning air ; 
But with a ([uick, ungentle motion, 
As sheeted sails, torn by the blast, 
Flap round some vessel's rocking mast 
Upon a stormy ocean. 

XLIV. 

Opposing ranks,, that onward bore, 

In tumult mix'd, are ranks no more ; 

Nor aught discern'd of skill or form ; — 

All a wild, bick'ring, steely storm ! 

While oft around some fav'rite Chieftain's 

crest, 
The turmoil thick'ning, darkly rose, 
As on rough seas the billow grows. 
O'er lesser waves high-heaved, but soon de- 

prest. 
So gallant Grame,thou noble Scot ! 
Around thee rose the fearful fi-ay. 
And other brave eompeers of bold qgsay, 
Who did not spare their mothers' sons that 

day, 
And ne'er shall be forgot. 

XLV. 

But where the mighty Wallace fought, 

Like spirit quick, like giant strong, 

Plunging the foe's thick ranks among, 

Wide room in little time was hew'd, 

And grizly sights around were strew'd; 

Recoil'd aghasj; the helmed throng, 

And every hostile thing to earth was brought. 

Full strong and hardy was the foe 

To whom he gave a second blow. 

Many a Knightand Lord 

Fell victims to his sword, 

And Cressingham's proud crest lay lov/. 

XLVL 

And yet, all Southrons as they were. 
Their ranks dispers'd, their leader slain, 
Fassnig the bridge with dauntless air. 
They still came pouring on the plain; 
But wcaken'd of its rafter'd strength, 
'Tis said by warlike craft, and trod« 
By such successive crowds, at length 
The fiibrick fell with all its livino-toad. 
Loud was the shriek the sinkinTr Southrons 

gave, 
Thus dash'd into the deep and boomino- wave. 
For there a fearful death had they, ° 



Clutching each floating thing in vain, 
And struggling rose and sunk again. 
Who, 'midst the battle's loud aflray. 
Mad the fair meed of honour sought, 
And on the field like lions fought. 

XLVIL 

And there, upon that field — a bloody field, 

Where many a wounded youth was lying, 

And many dead and many dying. 

Did England's arms to Scotland's heroes yield. 

The close confusion opening round. 

The wild pursuit's receding sound. 

Is ringing in their ears, who low 

On cloated earth are laid, nor know, 

When those who chase and those who fly, 

With hasty feet come clatt'riag by, 

Or v/ho hath won or who hath lost ; 

Save when some dying Scotchman lifts his 

head. 
And, asking faintly how the day hath sped, 
At the glad news, half from the ground. 
Starts up, and gives a cheering sound, 
And waves his iiaud, and yields the ghost. 
A smile is on the corse's cheek, 
Stretch'd by the heather bush, on death-bed 

bare and bleak. 

XLVIIL 

With rueful eyes the wreck of that dire hour, 
The Southron's yet unbroken power, 
As on the river's adverse shore they stood, 
Silent beheld, till, like a mountain flood, 
Rush'd Stirling's castled warriors to the plain ; 
Attack'd their now desponding force, 
And fiercely press'd their hasty course 
Back to their boasted native soil again. 

XLLX. 

Of foes so long detested, — fear'd. 

Were towns and castles quickly clear'd; 

Thro' all the land at will might freemen 

range ; 
Nor slave nor tyrant there appear'd ; 
It was a blessed chanjie ! 



The peasant's cot and homely farm, 

Hall-house and tower, secure from harm 

Or lawless spoil, again became 

The cheerful charge of wife or dame. 

'Neath humble roofs, from rafter slung 

The harmless spear, on which was hung 

The flaxen yarn in spindles coil'd, 

And leathern pouch and hnzen soii'd, 

And rush or osier creel *, that held 

Both field and household gear ; whilst swell'd 

With store of Scotland's fav'rite food. 

The seemly sack in corner stood; 

llemains of what the foe had left ; 

Glad sight to folks so long beret\ I 

And look'd at oft and wisely spared, 

Tho' still with poorer neighbours shared. 

The wooden quaigh t and trencher placed 

On the shelv'd wall, its rudeness graced. 

* Creel, the common Scotch name for basket, 
t Quaigh, a stained drinking cup. 



WILLIAM V/ALLACE. 



505 



Beneath the pot red faggots glanced, 
And on the hearth the spindle danced, 
As housewife's slight, so finely true, 
The lengthen'd thread from distaff drew, 
While she, belike, sang ditty shrill 
Of Southron louns with lengthen'd trill. 

LI. 

In castle hall with open gate, 

The noble Lady kept her state. 

With girdle clasp'd by gem of price. 

Buckle or hasp of rare device. 

Which held, constrain'd o'er bodice tight, 

Her woollen robe of colours bright ; 

And with bent head and tranquil eye, 

And gesture of fair courtesy. 

The stranger guest bade to her board 

Tho' far a field her warlike lord. 

A board where smoked on dishes clear 

Of massy pewter, sav'ry cheer, 

And potent ale was foaming seen 

O'er tankards bright of silver sheen, 

Which erst, when foemen bore the sway, 

Beneath the sod deep buried lay. 

For household goods, from many a hoard. 

Were now to household use restored. 

LII. 

Neighbours with neighbours join'd, begin 
Their cheerful toil, whilst mingled din 
Of saw or hammer cleave the air. 
The roofless bigging * to repair. 
The woodman fells the gnarled tree, 
The ploughman whistles on the lea ; 
The falkner keen his bird lets fly. 
As lordlings gaze with upcast eye ; 
The arrow'd sportsman strays at will, 
And fearless strays o'er moor and hill ; 
The traveller pricks along the plain : 
The herdboys shout and children play ; 
Scotland is Scotland once again, 
And all are boon and gay. 

LTII. 

Thus, freedom from a grievous yoke, 
Like gleam of sunshine o'er them broke ; 
And souls, when joy and peace were new. 
Of every nature, kindlier grew. 
It was a term of liberal dealing, 
And active hope and friendly feeling; 
Thro' all the land might freemen range. 
It was a blessed change ! 

LIV. 

So, when thro" forest wild hath past 
The mingled fi-ay of shower and blast. 
Tissue ot° threaded gems is worn 
By flower and fern and brier and thorn. 
While the scourged oak and shaken pine. 
Aloft in brighten'd verdure shine. 
Then Wallace to St. Johnston went, 
And thro' the country quickly sent 
Summons to burgher, knight, and lord, 
Who, there convened, with one accord, 

* Bigging, house or building of any kind, but 
generally rustic and mean. 
63 



Took solemn oath with short debate, 

Of fealty to the state. 

Until a King's acknowledged, rightful sway, — 

A native King, tliey should with loyal hearts 

obey. 
And he with foresight wise, to spare 
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, bare. 
Whose fields unplough'd, and pastures scant, 
Had brought her hardy sons to want. 
His conquering army southward led. 
Which was on England's plenty fed : 
And there, I trow, for many months they took 
Spoil of the land which ill that hateful change 

could brook. 

LV. 

Edward, meantime, asham'd and wroth 

At such unseemly foil, and loth 

So to be bearded, sent defiance 

To Scotland's chief, in sure reliance 

That he, with all which he may southward 

bring, 
Of warlike force, dare not encounter Eng- 
land's King. 

LVI. 

But Wallace, on the day appointed, 

Before this scepter'd and anointed, 

Who, strengthen'd with a num'rous host, 

There halted, to maintain his boast. 

On Stanmore's height, their battle ground, 

With all his valiant Scots was found. 

A narrow space of stony moor. 

With heatii and likens mottled o'er. 

And cross'd with dew-webs wiry sheen, 

The adverse party lay between. 

When upland mists had worn away. 

And blue sky over-head was clearing. 

And things of distant ken appearing 

Fair on the vision burst, that martial grand 

array. 
The force on haughty Edward's side, 
Spearmen and archers were descry'd, 
Line beyond line, spread far and wide. 
Receding from the eye ; 
While bristling pikes distinct and dark. 
As traced aloft with edgy mark, 
Seem'd graven on the sky ; 
And aruTed Knights arm'd steeds bestriding, 
Their morions glancing bright. 
And to and fro their gay squires riding 
In warlike geer bedight. 
O'er all the royal standard flew, 
With crimson folds of gorgeous hue, 
And near it, ranged, in colours gay. 
Inferior flags and banners play, 
As broad-wing'd hawk keeps soaring high. 
Circled by lesser birds, that wheeling round 

him fly. 
Huce wagffon, sleaded car, and wain. 
With dark, piled loads, a heavy train. 
Store-place of arms and yeoman's cheer, 
Frown'd in the further rear. 

LVII. 

And martial'd on the northern side, 
The nortliern ranks the charge abide, 



50C 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



In numbers few, but stout of heart, 
Tlieir nation's honour to assert. 

LVIII. 
Thus on the field with clans and liegemen 

good, 
England's great King, and Scotland's War- 
den stood. 
Tliat Monarch proud, did rightly claim 
'Mongst Europe's Lords the fairest fame, 
And had, in cause of Christentie, 
Fought with bold Saracens right gallantly. 
That Warden was the noblest man 
That e'er grac'd nation, race, or clan. 
And grasp'd within his brave right hand 
A sword, which from the dust had rais'd his 
native land. 

LIX. 

Who had not cried, that look'd upon 

So brave and grand a sight, 

" What stalwart deeds shall here be done 

" Before the close of night I " 

But Edward mark'd with falt'ring will. 

The Scottish battle ranged with skill. 

Which spoke the Leader's powerful mind. 

On England's host that number'd twice their 

foes. 
But newly raised, nor yet enured to blows. 
He rueful look'd, his purpose fail'd. 
He look'd again, his spirit quail'd, 
And battle gage declin'd. 

LX. 

And thus did he to Wallace yield, 
The bloodless honours of the field. 
But as the Southron ranks withdrew, 
Scarcely believing what he saw, 
The wary Chief might not expose 
His soldiers to returning foes, 
Or ambush'd snare, and gave the order, 
With beat of drum and trumpet sounding, 
The air with joyous shouts resounding, 
To cross with homeward steps the English 
border. 

LXI. 

Scotland thus, from foes secure, 

Her prudent Chieftain to enure 

His nobles still to martial toil, 

Sought contest on a distant soil ; 

And many a young and valiant knight, 

For foreign wars were witli their leader dight, 

And soon upon the seas careering 

In gallant ship, whose penants play. 

Waving and curling in the air, 

With changeful hues of colour fair, 

Tliemselvcs as gallant, boon, and gay, 

Their course with fav'ring breezes steering. 

To friendly France they held their w?.y. 

LXII. 

And they upon the ocean met 
With warlike ficct, and sails full set, 
De Longoville, that bold outlaw, 
Whose name kept mariners in awe. 
Tliis man, witli aU his desp'rate crew 
Did 'Wallace on the waves subdue. 



One Scottish ship the pirate thought 

As on her boarded deck he fought, 

Cheer'd by his sea-mates' warlike cries, 

A sure and easy prize. 

But Wallace's mighty arm he felt; 

Yea, at his conqueror's feet he knelt: 

And there disdained not to crave 

And take the mercy of the brave ; 

For still, as thing by nature fit. 

The brave unto the brave are knit. 

Thus natives of one parent land. 

In crowded mart, on foreign strand. 

With quick glance recognize each other; 

" That mien ! that step I it is a brother ! 

" Tho' mingled with a meaner race, 

" In foreign garb, I know that face, 

" His features beam like those I love, 

" His limbs with mountain vigour move, 

" And tho' so strange and alien grown, 

" The kindred tie my soul will own." 

De Longoville, ev'n from that hour, a knight, 

True to his native King, true to the right. 

Fought with the Scottish hero to the end. 

In many a bloody field, his tried and valiant 

friend. 

LXIII. 
And nobly in the lists of France, 
Those noble Scots with brand and lance, 
'Midst foreign knights and warriours blended, 
In generous rivalry contended, 
Whilst their brave Chieftain taught them still, 
The soldier's dext'rous an and leader's nobler 

skill. 

LXIV. 
But English Edward, tired the while 
Of life inert and covert guile. 
Most faithless to the peace so lately made, 
Was northward bound again, poor Scotland 

to invade. 
Then Wallace, with his valiant band, 
By Scotland's faithful sons recall'd. 
Whom foreign yoke full sorely gall'd. 
Must raise again his glaved hand 
To smite the shackles from his native land. 

LXV. 

Brave hearts, who had in secret burn'd. 
To see their country bear the yoke, 
Hearing their Warden was return'd, 
Forth from their secret hidings broke, 
Wood, cave, or mountain-cliif, and ran 
To join the wond'rous man. 

LXVl. 

It was a sight to chase despair. 
His standard floating on ^e air, 
Which, curling oft with courteous wave, 
Still seem'd to beckon to the brave. 
And when approach'd within sliort space. 
They saw his form and knew his face, — 
That brow of hope, that step of power, 
Which stateliest strode in danger's hour, — 
How glow'dcach heart.' — " Himself we see ! 
" What, tho' but few and spent we be ! 
" Tiie valiant heart despaireth never ; 
" Tiie rightful cause is strongest ever; 
" While Wallace lives, the land is free. 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



507 



LXVII. 

And he this flatl'ring hope pursued, 

And war with England's King renew'd. 

By martial stratagem he took 

St. Johnston's stubborn town, a hold 

So oft to faithless tyrants sold ; 

And cautious patriots then forsook 

Ignoble shelter, kept so long, 

And join'd in arms the ardent throng. 

Who with the Warden southward past, 

Like clouds increasing on the blast. 

Lxvin. 

Fife from the enemy he won, 

And in his prosp'rous course held on. 

Till Edward's strength, borne quickly down, 

Held scarcely castle, tower, or town, 

{n all the southern shires ; and then 

He turn'd him to the north again ; 

Where from each wall'd defence, the foe ex- 

pell'd. 
Fled fast, Dundee alone still for King Edward 
held. 

LXIX. 
But the oppressor, blushing on his throne 
To see the Scotch his warriours homeward 

chase, 
And those, so lately crush'd, so powerful 

grown. 
But ill could brook this sudden foul disgrace. 
And he a base, unprincely compact made 
With the red Gumming, traitor, black of 

heart ! 
Who to their wicked plot, in secret laid, 
Some other chieftains gain'd with wily art. 
And he hath dared again to send 
A noble army, all too brave 
For such unmanly, hateful end, 
A land of freedom to enslave. 
At Falkirk soon was England's proudest boast 
Marshall'd in grand array, a brave and pow- 
erful host. 

LXX. 

But there with valiant foe to cope. 
Soon on the field stood Scotland's hope, 
Ev'n thirty thousand warriours, led 
By noble Wallace, each, that day. 
Had cheerfully his heart's blood shed 
The land to free from Southron's sway. 
Alas ! had all her high-born chieftains been 
But as their leader and their clansmen true, 
She on that field a glorious day had seen. 
And made, tho' match'd with them, in num- 
ber few, 
King Edward's vaunted host that fatal day 
to rue. 

LXXI. 
But envy of a hero's fame, 
Which so obscured each lofty name, 
Was meanly harbour'd in the breast 
Of those who bore an honour'd crest. 
But most of all Red Gumming nursed 
Li his dark breast this bane accursed, 
That, with the lust of power combiii'd, 
Oer-mastcr'd all his wretched mind. 



Then to Lord Stewart, secretly, 
Spoke with smooth words the traitor sly. 
Advising that, to grace his name, 
Being by right confess'd the man. 
Who ought to lead the Scottish van, 
He should the proud distinction claim. 
And thus, as one of low estate. 
With Up of scorn, and brow elate, 
Did he, by traitors back'd, the godUke Wal- 
lace bate. 

Lxxn. 

" Must noble chiefs of high degree, 

" Scotland's best blood, be led by thee.' 

" Thou, who art great but as the owl, 

" Who plumed her wing from every fowl, 

" And, hooting on her blasted tree, 

" Would greater than the eagle be." 

LXXHl. 

" I stood," said Wallace " for the right, 
"When ye in holes shrunk from the light; 
" My plumes spread to the blazing sun 
" Which coweringly ye sought to shun. 
" Ye are the owls, who from the gloom 
" Of cleft and cranny boasting come ; 
" Yet, hoot and chatter as ye may, 
" I'll not to living man this day 
" Resign the baton of command, 
" Which Scotland's will gave to my hand, 
" When spoil'd, divided, conquer'd, maim'd, 
" None the dangerous honour claim'd ; 
" Nor, till my head lie in the dust, 
" Will it betray her sacred trust." 

LXXIV. 

With flashing eye, and dark red brow, 
He utter'd then a hasty vow. 
Seeing the snare by treason laid, 
So strongly wove, so widely spread, 
And slowly from the field withdrew ; 
While, slow and silent at his back, 
March'd on his wayward, cheerless track, 
Ten thousand Scotchmen staunch and true, 
Who would, let good or ill betide, 
By noble Wallace still abide. 

LXXV. 

To them it was a strange and irksome sight, 
As on a gentle hill apart they stood. 
To see arm'd squadrons closing in the fight, 
And the fierce onset to their work of blood. 
To see their well-known banners as they 

moved 
When dark opposing ranks with ranks are 

blending, 
To see the lofty plumes of those they loved 
Wave to and fro, with the brave foe contend- 
ing. 

LXXVI. 
It hath been said, that gifted seer, 
On the dark mountain's cloudy screen, 
Forms of departed chiefs have seen, 
In seeming armour braced with sword and 

spear, 
O'erlooking some dire field of death. 
Where warriours, warm with vital breath, 



508 



WILLIAM WALLACE 



Of kindred lineage, urge the glorious strife ; 
They grasp their shadowy spears, and forward 

bend 
In eager sympathy, as if to lend 
Their aid to those, with whom in mortal life, 
Tlicy did such rousing, noble conflict share, — 
As if their phantom forms of empty air, 
Still own'd a kindred sense of what on earth 

they were. 

LXXVII. 

So Wallace and his faithful band survey'd 
The fatal fight, when Scotland was betray'd 
By the false Gumming, who most basely fled. 
And from the field a thousand warriours led. 
O how his noble spirit burn'd 
When from his post the traitor turn'd, 
Leaving the Stuart sorely prest ! 
Who with his hardy Scots the wave 
Of hostile strength did stoutly breast, 
Like clansmen true and brave. 
His visage flush'd with angry glow. 
He clench'd his hand, and struck his brow. 
His heart within his bosom beat 
As it would break from mortal seat. 
And when at last they yielded space, 
And he beheld their piteous case. 
Big scalding tears cours'd down his manly 
face. 

Lxxvni. 

But, ah ! that fatal vow, that pride 

Which doth in mortal breast reside, 

Of noble minds the eartiily bane, 

His gen'rous impulse to restrain. 

Had power in that dark moment ! still 

It struggled with his better will. 

And who, superiour to this tempter's power, 

Hath ever braved it in the trying hour.' 

O 1 only he, who, strong in heavenly grace. 

Taking from wretched thrals, of woman born, 

Their wicked mockery, their stripes, their 

scorn, 
Gave his devoted life for all the human race. 
He viewed the dire disast'rous fight, 
Like a fall'n cherubim of light, 
Whose tossing form now tow'rs, now bends, 
And with its darken'd self contends. 
Till many a brave and honour'd head 
Lay still'd upon a bloody bed, 
And Stuart, 'midst his clans, was number'd 

with the dead. 

LXXIX. 

Tlien rose he, like a rushing wind, 
Which strath or cavern hath confin'd. 
And straight tlirongh England's dark array, 
With his bold mates, hew'd outliis bloody way. 
A perilous daring way, and dear the cost ! 
For there the good, the gallant Grame he lost. 
The gallant Granic, whose name shall long 
Rcmember'd be in Scottish song. 
A^nd second still to Wallace wight 
In lowland tale of winter's night, 
Who loved him as he never loved another. 
Low to the dust he bent his head. 
Deep was hia anguish o'er the dead. — 



" That daring hand, that gentle heart ! 
•' That lolly mind ! and must we part.' 
" My brother, Oh, my brother !" 

LXXX. 

But how shall verse feign'd accents borrow, 

To speak with words their speechless sorrow, 

Who, on the trampled, blood-stain'd green 

Of battle-field, must leave behind 

What to their souls hath dearest been, 

To stiffen in the wind .' 

The soldier there, or kern or chief, 

Short parley holds with shrewdest grief; 

Passing to noisy strife from what, alas ! 

Shall from his sadden'd fancy never pass, — 

The look that ev'n thro' writhing pain, 

Says, " shall we never meet again .' " 

The grasping hand or sign but known, 

Of tenderness, to one alone : 

The lip convulsed, the life's last shivery 

The new-closed eye, yet closed forever. 

The brave must quit ; — but, from the ground, 

They, like th' enchafed lion bound. 

Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed, 

And blood the tears they shed. 

LXXXI. 

Too bold it were for me to tell. 

How Wallace fought ; how on the brave 

The ruin of his anguish fell. 

Ere from the field, his bands to save, 

He broke away, and sternly bore 

Along the stony Carrcn's shore. 

The dark brown water, hurrying past. 

O'er stone and rocky fragment cast 

The white churn'd foam with angry bray, 

And whecl'd and bubbled on its way, 

And lash'd the margin's flinty guard, 

By him unheeded and unheard ; 

Albeit, his mind, dark with despair. 

And grief, and rage, was imaged there. 

LXXXII. 

And there, 'tis said, the Bruce descried 

Him marching on the rival side. 

Tlie Bruce, whose right the country own'd, 

(Had he possess'd a princely soul. 

Disdaining Edward's base controuh) 

To be upon her chair of power enthron'd. 

LXXXIH. 

" Ho. chieftain ! " said tlie princely slave, 

" Thou who pretend'st the land to save 

" AVith rebel sword, opposed to me, 

" Who should of right thy sovereign be : 

" Think'st thou the Scottish crown to wear, 

" Opposed by foreign power so great, 

" By those at home of liigh estate .■' 

'■' Cast the vain thought to empty air, 

" Tliy fatal mad ambition to despair." 

LXXXI V. 

" No ! " Wallace answer'd : " I have sliewa 
" This sword to gain or power or throne 
" Was never drawn ; no act of mine 
" Did e'er with selfish thought combine. 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



509 



" Courage to dare, when others lay 

" In brutish sloth, beneath the sway 

•' Of foreign tyranny ; to save 

" From thraldom, hateful to the brave, 

" My friends, my countrymen ; to stand 

"For right and honour of the land, 

" When nobler arms shrunk from the task, 

" In a vile tyrant's smiles to bask, 

" Hath been my simple warrant of command. 

"And Scotland hath confirm'd it.— No; 

" Nor sliall tliis hand her charge forego, 

" While Southron in the land is found 

" To lord it o'er one rood of Scottish ground, 

" Or till my head be low." 

LXXXV. 

Deep blush'd the Bruce, shame's conscious 

glow ! 
And own'd the hero's words were true ; 
And with liis followers, sad and slow 
To Edward's camp withdrew. 

LXXXVI. 

But fleeting was the mighty tyrant's boast, 
(So says the learned clerk of old, 
Who first our hero's story told,) 
Fleeting the triumph of his numerous host. 
For with the morning's early dawn 
The Scottish soldiers, scatter'd wide. 
Hath Wallace round his standard drawn. 
Hath cheer'd their spirits, rousd their pride. 
And led them, where their foes they found, 
All listless, scatter'd on the ground. 
On whom with furious charge they set; 
And many a valiant Southron met 
A bloody death, waked from the gleam 
And inward vision of a morning's dream ; 
Where Fancy in his native home 
Led him through well-known fields to roam. 
Where orchard, cot, and copse appear, 
And moving forms of kindred dear ; — 
For in the rugged soldier's brain 
She oft will fairy court maintain 
Full gently, as beneath the dusk 
Of hard-ribb'd shell, the pearl lies. 
Or silken bud in prickly husk ; — 
He from her visions sweet unseals his eyes 
To see the stern foe o'er him darkly bending. 
To feel the deep-thrust blade his bosom rend- 
ing. 

Lxxxvn. 

So many Southrons there were slain, 
So fatal was the vengeance ta'en. 
That Edward, with enfeebled force, 
Check'd mad ambition's unbless'd course. 
And to his own fair land rcturn'd again. 

Lxxxvni. 

Then Wallace thought from tower and town 

And castled hold, as heretofore. 

To pull each English banner down, 

And free the land once more. 

But ah ! the generous hope he must forego ! 

Envy and pride have Scotland's cause be- 

tray'd ; 
All now are backward, listless, cold, and slow 
His patriot arm to aid. 



LXXXIX. 

Then to St. Johnston, at his call. 

Met burghers, knights and nobles all. 

Who on the pressing summons wait, 

A full assembly of the state. 

There he resign'd his ensigns of command, 

Which erst had kept the proudest Thanes in 

awe ; 
Retaining in that potent hand 
Which thrice redeem'd its native land. 
His simple sword alone, with which he stood 
Midst all her haughty peers of princely blood. 
The noblest man e'er Scotland saw. 

XC. 

And thus did Scottish Lords requite 

Him, who, in many a bloody fight. 

The country's champion stood ; her people's 

Wallace wight. 
O black ingratitude ! thy seemly place 
Is in the brutish, mean, and envious heart ; 
How is it then, thou dost so oft disgrace 
The learn'd, the wise, the highly born, and 

art 
Like cank'ring blights, the oak that scatlie, 
While fern and brushwood thrive beneath; 
Like dank mould on the marble tomb. 
While graves of turf with violets bloom. 
Selfish ambition makes the lordliest Thane 
A meaner man than him, who drives the 

loaded wain. 

XCI. 

And he with heavy heart his native shore 

Forsook to join his old ally once more. 

And in Guienna right valiant deeds he 

wrought; 
Till under iron yoke opprest. 
From north to south, from east to west. 
His most unhappy groaning country sought 
The generous aid she never sought in vain; 
And with a son's unwearied love. 
Which fortune, time, nor wrongs could move. 
He to maintain her cause again repass'd the 

main. 
The which right bravely he maintain'd ; 
And divers castles soon regain'd. 
The sound ev'n of liis whisper'd name 
Revived in faithful hearts the smother'd flame, 
And many secretly to join his standard came. 
St. Johnston's leaguered walls at length 
Were yielded to his growing strength ; 
And on, with still increasing force, 
He southward held his glorious course. 

XCIL 

Tlien Edward thought the chief to gain, 
And win him to his princely side 
With treasur'd gold and honours vain, 
And English manors fair and wide. 
But with flush'd brow and angry eye 
And words that shrewdly from him broke. 
Stately and stern, he thus bespoke 
The secret embassy. 
" These kingly proffers made to me ! 
" Return and say it may not be. 



610 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



" Lions shall troop with herdsmen's droves, 
" And eagles roost with household doves, 
" Ere William Wallace drawr his blade 
" With those who Scotland's rights invade. 
" Yea, ev'n the touch of bondsman's chain, 
" Would in my thrilling members wake 
" A loathful sense of rankling pain 
" Like coiling of a venom'd snake." 
The King abash'd, in courtly hold, 
Receiv'd this answer sooth and bold. 

xcin. 

But ah ! the fated hour drew near 
That stopp'd him in his bold career. 
Monteitii, aname which from that day, I ween. 
Hateful to every Scottish ear hath been, 
Which highland kern and lowland hind 
Have still with treacherous guile combin'd, — 
The false Monteith, who under show 
Of friendship, sold him to the foe. 
Stole on a weary secret hour. 
As sleeping and disarm'd he lay, 
And to King Edward's vengeful power 
Gave up the mighty prey. 

XCIV. 

At sight of noble Wallace bound. 

The Southrons raised a vaunting sound. 

As if the bands which round his limbs they 

drew, 
Had fetter'd Scotland too. 
They gaz'd and wonder'd at their min-hty 

thrall ; 
Then nearer drew with movements slow, 
And spoke in whispers deep and low. — 
" This is the man to whom did yield 
" The doughtiest knight in banner'd field, 
" Whose tlu-eat'ning frown the boldest did 

appal ! " 
And, as his clanging fetters shook, 
Cast on him oft a fearful look. 
As doubting if in verity 
Such limbs with iron might holden be : 
While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side 
With beating heart and haggard visage ride. 

xcv. 

Thus on to London they have past. 
And in the Tower's dark dungeons cast 
The hero ; where, in silent gloom, 
He must abide his fatal doom. 
There pent, from earthly strife apart, 
Scotland still rested on his heart. 
Aye ; every son that breathed her air 
On cultur'd plain or mountain bare, 
From chief in princely castle bred 
To herdsman in his sheeling shed. 
From war-dight youth to barefoot child, 
Who picks in brake the berry wild : — 
Her gleamy lakes and torrents clear. 
Her towns, her towers, her forests green. 
Her fields where warlike coil hath been, 
Are to his soul most dear. 

XCVI. 

His fetter'd hands support a head. 
Whose nodding plume had terrour spread 



O'er many a face, e'en seen from far, 
When moving in the ranks of war. 
Jjonely and dark, unseen of man. 
But in that Presence whose keen eye 
Can darkest breast of mortal scan, 
The bitter thought and heavy sigh 
Have way uncheck'd, and utter'd grief 
Gave to his burthen'd heart a soothing, sad 
relief. 

XCVII. 

" It hath not to this arm been given 
" From the fell tyrant's grinding hand 
" To set thee free, my native land ! 
" I bow me to the will of Heaven ! 
" But have I run my course in vain .' 
" Shall thou in bondage still remain? 
" The spoiler o'er thee still have sway, 
" Till virtue, strength, and pride decay ? 
" O no ! still panting to be free, 
" Thy noblest hearts will think of me. 
" Some brave, devoted, happier son 
'' Will do the work I would have done ; 
" And blest be he, who nobly draws 
" His sword in Scotland's cause ! " 

XCVIII. 

Perhaps his vision'd eye might turn 
To him who fought at Bannockburn. 
Or is it wildness to believe 
A dying patriot may receive, 
CWho sees his mortal span diminish'd 
To nought, his generous task unfinish'd.) 
A seeming fruitless end to cheer. 
Some glimpses of the gifted seer .•' 
O no I 'tis to his closing sight 
A beacon on a distant height, — 
The moon's new crescent, seen in cloudy 
kirtled night. 

XCIX. 

And much he strove with Christian grace, 

Of those who Scotland's foes had been, 

His soul's strong hatred to efface, 

A work of grace, 1 ween ! 

Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book, 

And every worldly thought forsook. 

C. 

But when he on the scaffold stood. 
And cast aside his mantling hood. 
He eyed the crowd, whose sullen hum. 
Did from ten thousand upcast faces come, 
And armed guardsmen standing round. 
As he was wont on battle-groiind. 
Where still with calm and portly air. 
He faced the foe with visage bare ; 
As if with baton of command 
And vassal chiefs on either hand. 
Towering her marshall'd files between, 
He Scotland's Warden still had been. 
This flash of mortal feeling past, — 
This gleam of pride, it was the last. 
As on the cloud's dense skirt will play, 
While the dark tempest rolls away, 
One parting blaze ; then thunders cease. 
The sky is clear, and all is peace. 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



511 



And he with ready will a nobler head 
Than e'er was circled with a kingly crown, 
Upon the block to headsman's stroke laid 

down, 
And for his native land a generous victim bled 

CI. 
What tlio' that head o'er gate or tower, 
Like felons on the cursed tree, 
Visited by sun and shower, 
A ghastly spectacle may be ! 
A fair renown, as years wear on, 
Shall Scotland give her noblest son. 
The course of ages shall not dim 
The love that slie shall bear to him. 

CIl. 
In many a castle, town, and plain. 
Mountain and forest, still remain 
Fondly cherish'd spots, which claim 
The proud distinction of his honour'd name. 

cm. 

Swells the huge ruin's massy heap 
In castled court, 'tis Wallace's keep. 
What stateliest o'er the rest may lower 
Of time-worn wall, where rook and daw. 
With wheeling flight and ceaseless caw, 
Keep busy stir, is Wallace's tower. 
If thro' the green wood's hanging screen, 
High o'er the deeply-bedded wave. 
The mouth of arching cleft is seen 
Yawning dark, 'tis Wallace's cave. 
If o'er its jutting barrier grey, 
Tinted by time, with furious din, 
The rude crags silver'd with its sprey, 
Shoot the wild flood, 'tis Wallace's hn. 
And many a wood remains, and hill and glen 
Haunted,"'tis said, of old by Wallace and his 
men. 

CIV. 
There schoolboy still doth haunt the sacred 

ground. 
And musing oft its pleasing influence own, 
As, starting at his footsteps' echo'd sound, 
He feels himself alone. 

CV. 
Yea, ev'n the cottage matron, at her wheel, 
Altho' with daily care and labour crost, 
Will o'er her heart the soothing magic feel, 
And of her country's ancient prowess boast ; 
While on the little shelf of treasured books. 
For what can most of all her soul delight. 
Beyond or ballad, tale, or jest, she looks, — 
The history renown'd of Wallace wight. 

CVI. 

But chiefly to the soldier's breast 
A thought of him will kindling come, 
As waving high his bonnet's crest. 
He listens to the rolling- drum. 
And trumpet's call and thrilling fife. 
And bagpipes' loud and stormy sti'ain, 
Meet prelude to tumultuous strife 
On the embattled plain. 



CVII. 

Whether in highland garb array 'd. 

With kirtle short and highland plaid, 

Or button'd close in lowland vest. 

Within his doughty grasp, broad sword, or 

gun be prest, — 
Rememb'ring him, he still maintains 
His country's cause on foreign plains, 
To grace her name and earn her praise, 
Led by the brave of modern days. 

CVIII. 
Such Abercrombie, fought with thee 
On Egypt's dark embattled sliore. 
And near Corunna's bark-clad sea 
With great and gallant Moore. 
Such fought with Ferguson and Graham, 
A leader worthy of the name. 
And fought in pride of Scotland's ancient 

fame 
With firmer nerve and warmer will ; 
And wheresoe'er on hostile ground. 
Or Scot or hardy Celt are found, 
Thy spirit, noble Wallace, fighteth still. 

CIX. 

O Scotland ! proud may be thy boast ! 
Since Time his course thro' circling years 

hath run, 
There hath not shone, in Fame's bright host, 
A nobler hero than thy patriot son. 

ex. 

Manly and most devoted was the love 
With which for thee unwoariedly he strove ; 
No selfish lust of power, not ev'n of fame. 
Gave ardour to the pure and generous flame. 
Rapid in action, terrible in fight. 
In counsel wise, inflexible in right, 
Was he, who did so oft, in olden days. 
Thy humbled head from base oppression raise. 
Then be it by thy generous spirit known. 
Ready in freedom's cause to bleed. 
Spurning corruption's worthless meed. 
That in thy heart thou feel'st this hero was 
thine own. 



NOTES 



Note I. 



Jhid sunk beneath the Southron^ s faithless lord 
III sullen deep despair. Fage 499. 

The oppression under which Scotland 
groaned is thus detailed by Blind Harry, 
(page 7.) 

" When Saxon blood into the realm coming. 
Working the will of Ed ward, that false Kmg, 
Many great wrongs they wrought in this re- 
gion. 
Destroyed our Lords and brake their biggins 

down. 
Both wives and widows they took at their 

own will, 
Nuns and maidens vviiom tliry lik'd to spill 



512 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



King Herod's part they played here in Scot- 
land, 
On young cliildrcn tliattliey before them fand. 
'I'he bisiiopricks tliat were of greatest vail 
They took in hand of their archbishop's haill ; 
Not for the Pope they would no kirk forbear, 
]3ut gripped all thro' violence of weir, 
(ilasgow they gave, as it o'crwell was ken'd, 
To Diocie of Durham to a commend. 
Small benefices then they would pursue. 
And for the right full worthy clerks they 
slew." 
The grievous thraldom which Scotland en- 
dured after the rights of Baliol had been set 
aside by Edward, is thus recorded by Bar- 
bour : 

" To Scotland went he (Edward) then in liy 
And all the land gan occupy : 
Sa halo that both castell and tonne 
Was inlo his possessioune 
Fra Weik anent Orkenay 
To AluUer Suvvk in Galloway; 
And ytuffet all with Inglissmen. 
Schyrreffys then and bailyhey.s made he then. 
And alkyn other officeries, 
That for to govern land afferis, 
lie maid of Inglis nation ; 
That worthyt than sa rycli fellone, 
And sa wyckkyt and cowatouss, 
And sa hawtene and dispitouss 
That Scottis men mycht do na thing 
That enir mycht pleyss to their liking. 

And gyfFthat ony man thaim by 
Had ony thing that was worthy, 
As horse or hund, or other thing, 
Tiiat was pleasand to thar liking, 
With rycht or wrang it have wald thai, 
And gyff ony man wald tiiem withsay, 
Thai said swa do that thai suld tyne 
Other land or lyffor leyff in pyne." 

After expatiating further on the miserable 
condition of the Scotch, he breaks forth in a 
more impassioned strain than is often to be 
met with in the sober bards of those olden 
times. 

" A ! freedome is a noble thing ! 
Freedome mays man to haiff liking; 
Freedome all solace to man giflis ; 
He levys at ess that frely levys ! 
A noble heart may haiff nana ess, 
Na ellys nocht tliat may him pless, 
Gyff freedome faily he : for fre liking 
Is yharnyt our all other thmg. 
Na he that ay has levyt fre, 
May nocht knav\r well tlie propyrtc 
The anger, na the wrechyt dome 
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldojne. 
Bot gyft' lie had assayet it. 
Than all pcrqucr he suld it wyt ; 
And suld think freedome mar to pryss 
Than all the gold in warld that is." 

Note H. 
Existed worth icithovL alloij, 
Inform a man, In years a lioij. P. 499. 
Blind Harry, page 7. 



" William Wallace, ere he was man of arms, 
Great pity thought that Scotland took sik 

harms. 
Meikle dolour it did him in his mind, 
For he was wise, right worthy, wight and 

kind. 

«-K- ********* 

Into his heart he had full meikle care. 

He saw the Soutlierons multiply mare and 

mare. 
And to himself would often make his mone. 
Of his good kin they had slain many one. 
Yet he was then seemly, stark, and bold, 
And he of age was but eighteen years old." 

Note HI. 
'Tis -pleasant in his early frolich feats 
Which fond tradition long and oft repeats, 
The op'ning of some dauntless soul to trace, 
Whose bright career of fame a country' s annals 

grace. P. 500. 
Many of the early feats of Wallace are lold 
by the Blind Bard very minutely, and some- 
limes witli a degree of humour ; as for in- 
stance, his slaying the constable's son of 
Dundee, told thus : — 
" Upon a day to Dundee he was send, 
Of cruelncss full little they him kend. 
The constable, a fellon man of weir, 
That to tlie Scotts oft did full meikle deir, 
Selbie, he heght, dispiieful and outrage, 
A son he had near tv/cnty years of age : 
Into the town he used every day. 
Three men or four there went with him to 

play. 
An hely shrew, w'anton in his nitent, 
Wallace he saw and towards him he went ; 
Likely he was right big and well beseem 
Into a weed of goodly ganand green; 
He caird on him and said, thou Scot, abide, 
What devil thee graiths in so gay a weed .' 
An Irish mantle is w-as thy kind to wear, 
A Scots whittle under tiiy belt to bear, 
Rougii rulzions upon thy harlot feet. 
Give me thy knife; what doth thy gear so 

meet ? 
To him he went, his knife to take him fra. 
Fast by the collar Wallace can him ta. 
Under his hand the knife he braideth out, 
For all his men that 'sembled him about. 
But help himself he knev.' of no remcad. 
Without rescue, he stickcd him to dead. 
Tiie squire fell, of him there was no more. 
His men followed on Wallace wonder sore. 
The press was thick, and cumber'd them full 

fast, 
Wallace was speedy, and greatly als agast; 
The bloody knife bare drawn in his liand, 
He spared none liiat he before liiin fand. 
The house he knew his ome lodged in. 
Thither he fled, for out he might not win. 
The good-wife there, witliin the close saw he, 
And help, he cried, for him that died on tree, 
The young captain has fallen with me at strife. 
In at the door lie v.-cnt with this good-wife 
A russet gown of her own slic him gave 
Upon hio weed that covcr'd all the lave ; 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



513 



A sudden courch o'er neck and head let fall, 
A woven white hat she braced on withall ; 
For they should not tarry long at that inn, 
Oave him a rock, syne set hiin down to spin. 
The Southron sought where Wallace was in 

dread, 
They knew not well at what gate in he yeed. 
In that same house they sought him busily, 
But he sat still and span right cunningly, 
As of liis time he had not learned lang. 
They left him so, and fortii their gates can gang 
With heavy chear and sorrowful of thought, 
Mair wit of him as then get could they 

nought." 

Note IV. 

Jls angler in the pooly wave. P. 500. 
Reduced, as he frequently was, to live in 
iiiding, this would often be his means of pro- 
viding food, though tiie following passage re- 
lates apparently to times of less necessity, 
when Wallace, attended only by a child, 
having gone to fish in the river of Irvine, 
met tlie attendants of Lord Piercy, who then 
commanded at Air. They rudely asking him 
to give tiiem some of his fish, and not con- 
tent with a part, which he had desired the 
child who carried the basket, to give them, 
but insolently demanding the whole, and, on 
his refusal, attacking him with the sword, it 
is said, — 

*' Wallace was woe he had no weapons there. 
But thepont-staff,the which in hand he bare. 
Wallace with it fast on the cheek him took 
With so good-will that while oft" his feet he 

sliook. 
The sword flew from him a fur-broad on the 

land. 
Wallace was glad, and hint it soon in hand. 
And with the sword an awkward stroke him 

gave 
Under his head, the craig in sunder rave. 
By that the rest lighted about Wallace, 
He had no help, but only God his grace. 
On either side full fast on him they dang. 
Great peril was if that had lasted lang. 
Upon the head in great ire struck he one. 
The shearing blade glaid to the collar-bone. 
Another on the arm he hit so hardily, 
While hand and sword both on the field can 

lie. 
The other two fled to their house again ; 
He sticketh him that last was on the plain. 
Three slew he there, two fled with all their 

might 
After their lord, but he was out of sight." 

Note V. 

ifow the Imsc Southrons arm a ic'oman sIcid, 
.ind rubbed him of his wedded mate. P. fjflO. 
From the same autliority we have the fol- 
lowing account of his love, which is some- 
what curious. 

Page 9(1. 
" In Lanerk dwelt a gentlewoman there, 
A maiden mild, as my book will declare. 



Eighteen years old or little more of age, 
Als born she was to part of heritage. 
Her father was of worship and renown. 
And Hew Braidfoothe heght, of Laming touu, 
As fell others in the country were call'd. 
Before time they gentlemen were of all'd. 
But this good man and als his wife was dead, 
The maiden then wist of no other rede. 
But still she dwelt in tribute in' the town 
And purchased had King Edward's protection; 
Servants v.'ith her and friends at her own will, 
Thus lived she without desire of ill ; 
A quiet house as she might hald in wear. 
For Hesilrig had done her meikle dear. 
Slain her brother, which eldest was and heir. 
All suffered she and right lowly her bare, 
Amiable, so benign, ware and wise. 
Courteous and sweet, fulfilled of gentrice. 
Well ruled of tongue, hail of countenance, 
Of virtues she was worthy to advance, 
Humbly she held and purchased a good name, 
Of ilka wight she keeped her from blame, 
True right wise folk a great favour she lent. 
Upon a day to kirk as she went, 
Wallace her saw as he his eyes can cast, 
The print of love, him punced at the last, 
So asperly thro'^ibeauty of that bright, 
With great unease in presence bide he might.' 
I hope I may be permitted to give a speci- 
men of the ornamented passages of the Blind 
Bard's poem, which contains but very few of 
that character. 

" Into April when closed is but ween 
The able ground by working of nature, 
And woods have won their worthy weeds of 

green. 
When Nympheus in building of his hour 
With oyl and balm, fulfilled of sweet odour, 
Funious matters as they are wont to gang, 
Walking their course in every casual hour. 
To glad the hunter with his merry sang." 

I am tempted also to give a specimen of 
the more empassioned or declamatory parts, 
which are likewise very thinly scattered 
through the work. Speaking of Wallace, 
who was obliged to leave his new-married 
I'ove, he exclaims, — 
" Now leave thy mirth, now leave thy haiU 

pleasance. 
Now leave thy bliss, now leave thy childish 

age, 
Now leave thy youtli, now follow thy hard 

chance, 
Now leave thy case, now leave thy marriage, 
Now leave thy love, or thou slinlt lose a gage 
Which never on earth shall be redeemed 

again ; 
Follow fortune and all her fierce outrage, 
Go live in war, go live in cruel pain." 

Tlie death of Wallace's wife is thus related 
in a plainer and less studied manner. After 
having told how the English, who were in 
possession of Lanerk, quarrelled witli Wal- 
lace and his friend. Sir John Graham, on 
their way from church, scoflTed at them for 
being so well dressed ; and how, after coming 



511 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



to blows, and the two friends slaying several 
of them, they were overpowered by numbers, 
and gained with difficulty the liouse of Wal- 
lace's wife, — he proceeds, 
" The woman then which was full will of 

wane, 
The peril saw with fcllon noise and din. 
Set up the gate and let them enter in. 
Thro' to a strength they passed off tliat stead. 
Fifty Southron upon the gate were dead. 
This fair woman did business in her might. 
The Englishmen to tarry with a slight, 
Wliile that Wallace into the woods was past, 
Then Cartlaa Crags they pursued fast. 
When Southron saw that scaped was Wallace, 
Again they turn'd, the woman took on case, 
Put her to death, I cannot tell you how. 
Of sik matter £ may not tarry now." 

Note VL 

His countrymen, with faithless gaze, 
Beheld his valour's early blaze. P. 500. 

Wintown, in his chronicle, after telling how 
Wallace surrounded the sherrif of Lanerk in 
the town at his inn, and slew him ; the con- 
clusion of which story runs thus : 
Page 9.5. 

" The schyrrave by the throt he gat. 

And that hey stayre he hurlyd him dov/n 

And slew him there wythin the town," 
j)roceeds to say, 

Fray he thus the scherravc si we, 

Scotlis men fast to him drew, 

That with tlie Inglis oft tyme ware, 

Aggrevyd and supprised sare." 

Holinshed, in his Chronicles, mentions him 
thus : — 

"In that season also the fame of William 
Wallace began to spring, a young gentleman 
of huge stature and notable strength of bodie, 
with such skill and knowledge of warlike en- 
terprises, and hereto of such liardinesse of 
stomach, in attempting all manner of danger- 
ous exploits, tliat his match was not any where 
llghllie to be found. Pie v/as son to one Sir 
Andrew Wallace of Craigie, and from his 
youth bore ever an inward hatred against tJie 
English nation. Suridrie notable feats he 
wrouglit also against the Englishmen in de- 
fence of the Scots, and was of such incredible 
force at his coming to perfect age, that of 
himselfe alone, without all helpe, he would 
not fuare to set on three or four P^nglishmen, 
nnd vanquish them. When the fame, there- 
lore, of his worthio acts was notified through 
the rcahne, manie were put in good hope that 
by his means the realme should be delivered 
from the servitude of the Englislnnen within 
short time after. And hereupon a great num- 
ber of tlic Scotch nation, as well of the nobili- 
tie as others, were readie to assist him in all 
his enterprises. By reason thereof he might 
noteasilie be entrapped, or taken of the Eng- 
lishmen, that went about to have gotten him 
into their lianils. ' 



Buchanan, in his history of Scotland, after 
mentioning the imprisonment of Baliol, and 
Edward's sailing to France, where he was then 
carrying on war, and Cumin, Earl of Buchan, 
taking advantage of his absence, to ravage 
Northumberland, and lay siege to Carlisle, 
continues, " Though this expedition did some- 
what to encourage the before crest-fallen 
Scotch, and hinder tiie English from doing; 
them further mischief, yet it contributed little 
or nothing to the main chance, in regard that 
all the places of strength were possessed by 
the enemy's garrisons ; but when the nobility 
had neitlier strength nor courage to undertake 
great matters, there presently started up one 
William Wallace, a man of an ancient noble 
family, but one that had lived poorly and 
meanly, as having little or no estate ; yet this 
man performed in this war, not only beyond 
the expectation, but even tlie belief of all the 
common people ; for he was bold of spirit, 
and strong of body ; and when he was but a 
youth, had slain a young English nobleman, 
who proudly domineered over him. For this 
fact he was forced to run away, and to skulk 
up and down in several places ibr some yeara 
to save his life, and by this course of living, 
his body was hardened against wind and 
weather, and his mind was likewise fortified 
to undergo greater hazards when time should 
serve. At length, growing weary of such a 
wandering unsettled way of living, he resolved 
to attempt something, though never so hazard- 
ous, and therefore gathered a band of men 
together of like fortune with himself, and did 
not only assault single persons, but even 
greater companies, though with an inferior 
number, and accordingly, slew several per- 
sons in divers places. He played his pranks 
with as much dispatch as boldness, and never 
gave his enemy any advantage to fight him } 
so that, in short time, his fame was spread 
over both nations, by which means many 
came in to him. moved by the likeness of their 
cause, or with like love of their country ; thus 
he made up a considerable army. And seeing 
the nobles were sluggish in their manao-c- 
ment of afl^airs, cither out of fear or dulness, 
this Wallace was proclaimed Regent by the 
tumultuous band that followed him, and so he 
managed things as a lavyful magistrate, and 
the substitute of Baliol. Pie accepted of this 
name, not out of any ambition or desire to 
rule, but because it was a title given him by 
his countrymen out of pure love and good- 
will. The first remarkable exploit he perform- 
ed with his army was near Lanerick, where 
he slew the major-general of that precinct, 
being an Englishman of good descent. After- 
wards ho took and demolished many castles, 
which were either slenderly fortified or mean- 
ly garrisoned, or else guardeil negligently; 
which petty attempts so encouraged his sol- 
diers, that they siiunned no service, no, not 
the most hazardtms, under his conduct, as 
having experienced that his boldness was 



WILLIAM WALLACE, 



515 



guided by counsel, and that his counsel was 
seconded by success." 

Note VII. 
What tho' those icarriors, gleaming round, 

On peaceful death-bed never lay, 

But each, upon his fated day. 
His end on field or scaffold found. — P. 501. 

That the greater part of those brave men 
died in the field I need scarcely maintain ; 
and Barbour, in liis Bruce, says, " that after 
the battle of Methven, the Scotcli prisoners of 
distinction were kept till Edward's pleasure 
respecting them should be known, who or- 
dered those who would not swear fealty to 
him, and abandon the cause of Bruce, to bo 
executed. Of the five names which he par- 
ticularly mentions, two, viz. Frazerand Hay, 
are found amongst Wallace's first associates ; 
to which he adds, ' and other ma.' " 

" Sir Thomas Randall there was taen, 

That was a young bacheler." 
Then, further on, 

'■ Thomas Randall was one of tha, 

Tliat for his lyff become their man. 

Offothyr that were takyn than. 

Sum they ransowet, sum thai slew. 

And sum thai hangyt, and sum thai drew." 
Randall, who is the only person amongst 
them, noticed as proving unfaithful to Bruce, 
and as a young man, we may infer that the 
others were more advanced in j^ears, and 
might, therefore, many of them, be the early 
companions of Wallace, who was himself only 
five and forty when he died. 

Note VIII. 
Ent'ring the fatal Barns, fair sight.' 

Went one by one the manly train, 
But neither hu,ron, laird, nor knight 

Did ecr return again. — P. 501. 

In Blind Harry, book 7th, the account of 
this wicked massacre is thus given : — 
" A baulk [beam] was knit all full of ropes so 

keen 
Sick a Tolbooth sensyn was never seen. 
Stern men were set the entry for to hold. 
None might pass in but ay as they were 

call'd. 
Sir Ranald [the uncle of Wallace] first to 

make fewty for his land. 
The knight went in and would no longer 

stand ; 
A running cord they slipt over his head 
Hard to the baulk and hanged him to dead. 
Sir Brice the Blair then with his ome in |Kist 
Unto the dead they hasted him full fast. 
By [by the time] he enter'd, his head was in 

the snare, 
Tied to the baulk, hanged to the dead right 

there. 
The third enter'd that pity was for thy, 
A worthy kniglit, Sir Neal Montgomery, 
And other feil [many] of landed men about. 
Many yeed in, but no Scotsman came out." 
Proceeding with the story, he says, — 



" Thus eighteen score to that derf death they 

dight. 
Of barons bold, and many a worthy knight. 

Dr. Janiieson,in his ingenious and learned 
Notes to the Life of Wallace, by Harry the 
Minstrel, so satisfactorily confutes the doubts 
of Lord Hailes, respecting the authenticity of 
this event, that there is no occasion for me to 
say any thing on the subject. A transaction 
so atrocious as the hanging so many men of 
distinction, and getting them into the snare 
on pretence of a public meeting on national 
business, might be fictitious in a poem written 
many ages after the date of the supposed 
event; but when found in a metrical history 
by a simple bard, so near that period, andsup- 
poited by the universal tradition of the coun- 
try, one must be sceptical to a degree which 
would make the relation of old events abso- 
lutely spiritless and unprofitable, to reject it. 
It might be called the imbecility of scepticism. 
This would be sufficient to establish it, even 
independent of the proof drawn from Barbour, 
and other old writers, which Dr. .Tamieson 
has produced. I recommend it to the reader 
to see the above mentioned notes, page 401., 
for the answer given by Dr. Jamicson to 
another objection of Sir D. Dairy mple, res- 
pecting the authenticity of Monteith's treach- 
ery to Wallace. 

Note IX. 
That form is Wallace wight.— F. 502. 

Miss Porter, in her interesting novel of the 
Scottish Chiefs, gives the following powerful 
description of her hero, at the Barns of Ayr, 
from which it is probable I have borrowed 
somewhat, though at the time scarcely aware 
to whom I was obliged; for, as Harry the 
Minstrel has made the ghost of Fadon appear 
upon the battlements of the Castle, with a 
" prodigious rafter in his hand," that might 
also impress me with the idea. After telling 
what great piles of combustibles were, by the 
orders of Wallace, heaped up on the outside 
of the building, she adds, — 

" When airwas ready, Wallace, with the 
mighty spirit of retribution, nerved every 
limb, mounted to the roof, and tearing off" part 
of the tiling, with a flaming brand in his hand, 
shewed himself glittering in arms to the |af- 
frighted revellers beneath, and as lie threw it 
blazing amongst them, he cried aloud, ' The 
blood of the murdered calls for vengeance, 
and it comes.' At that instant the matches 
were put to the faggots which surrounded the 
building, and the whole party, springing from 
their seats, hastened towards the doors : all 
were fastened, and, retreating again in the 
midst of the room, they fearfully looked up to 
the tremendous figure above, which, like a 
supernatural being, seemed to avenge their 
crimes, and rain^down fire on their guilty 
heads. '^ * * The rising smoke from within 
and without the building, now obscured his 
terrific form. The shouts of the Scots, as 
the fire covered its walls, and the strcammg 



616 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



flames licking the windows, and pouring into 
evory oj)cning of the building, raised such a 
terror iu tlie breasts of tlie wretciies within, 
that with the most horrible cries they again 
and again flew to the doors to escape. Not 
an avenue appeared ; almost suifocated with 
smoke, and scorched with the blazing rafters 
tliat fell from the roof, they at last made a des- 
perate attempt to break a passage through the 
great portal." 

Thougii 1 have made a larger extract from 
this able and popular writer, than is necessary 
for my purpose, the terrific sublimity of the 
passage, wiucli has tempted me to transgress, 
will also procure my pardon. 

Note X. 
O'er Slirting's toioers his standard plays, 
Lorn oions his rule, Jirgyle obeys. 
In /Jngus, Merns, and Aberdeen, 
Nor English Lord nor C erf is seen. — P. 502. 
liolinshed, after telling how Wallace re- 
ceived the army that John Cumin, Earl of 
Buclian,lcd before, and constrained those Scots 
that favoured King Edward to renounce all 
faith and promises made to him, says, " This 
done, he passed forth with great puissance 
against the Englishmen that held sundrie cas- 
tels within Scotland, and with great hardi- 
nesse and manhood he wan the castels of For- 
fair, Dundee, Brechen, and Montrose, sleaing 
all such soldiers as he found within them. 
Wallace , now joiful of his prosperous successe , 
and hearing, that certeine of the chiefest of- 
ficers of those Englishmen that kept the castle 
of Dunster, were gone forth to consult of 
other Englishmen of the forts next to them 
adjoining, came suddenlie to the said castel, 
and took it, not leaving a man alive of all 
those whom he found as then v/ithin it : then, 
after he had furnished the hold with his own 
souldiers in all defensible wise, he went to 
Aberdeen," &c. Holinshed's Chronicles. 

Buchanan says, " When these things were 
spread abroad, (the fame of Wallace's ex- 
ploits,) and, perhaps, somewhat enlarged be- 
yond the truth, out of men's respect and fa- 
vour to him, all that wished well to their 
country, or were afraid of their own particular 
conditions, flocked to him, as judging it fit to 
take opportunity by the forelock ; so that, in 
a short time, he reduced all the castles which 
tlie English held on the other side of the 
Forth, though well fortified,and more carefully 
guarded for fear of his attacks. He took and 
demolished the castles of Dundee and Forfar, 
Brechin and Montrose. He seized on Dun- 
ster by surprise, and garrisoned it: he enter- 
ed Aberdeen (which the enemy, for fear of 
his coming, had iilundered and burnt) even 
whilst it was in flames ; but a rumour being 
scattered abroad, concerning the coming of 
the English army, prevented his taking the 
castle ; for he determined to meet them at 
the Forth, not being willing to hazard-a bat- 
tle, but in a place which he himself should 
pitch upon." JjJich. Hist, of Scotland. 



Note XI. 
For ncM's arc Irought of English host 
Which fast ap-proaching thro' the land 
At Stirling mean to make their stand. — P. 502. 

Holinshed's Chronicles : — " But now being 
advertised of the coming of thisarmie against 
him, he (Wallace) raised his siege, and went 
to Strivcling to defend the bridge there, that 
Hugh Cressingham with liis army should not 
passe the same, ficcording, as the report went, 
ins intent was to doe. Heere, incountring 
with the enemies, the third ides of S(>ptem- 
ber, he obtained a very wortliie victorit; ; for 
he slew not onlie the foresaid Cressingham, 
with a great part of his armie, being passed 
the river, but also forced the residue to flee 
in such sort, that a great number of them 
were drowned, and few escaped awai with 
life. Thus having gotten the upper hand of 
his enemies, here at Striveling, he returned 
again to the siege of Cowper, which, sliortly 
after, upon his return thither, was rendered 
unto him by those that were within its gar- 
rison." 

Buchanan's History of Scotland : — " But 
he (King Edward) hearing of the exploits of 
Wallace, thought there was need of a greater 
force to suppress him ; yet, that the expedition 
was not worthy of a King neither (as being 
only against a roving thief, for so the English 
called Wallace,) and therefore, he writes to 
Henry Piercy, Earl of Northumberland, and 
William Latimer, ' that they should speedily 
levy what forces they could out of neighbour- 
ing parts, and join themselves with Cressing- 
ham, who as yet remained in Scotland, to 
subdue the rebellious Scots.' Thomas Wal- 
singham writes, ' that the Earl of Warren was 
general in this e.xpedition. But Wallace, who 
was then besieging the castle of Cowper, in 
Fife, lest his army, which he had increased 
against the approach of the English, should 
be idle ; the English being near at hand, 
marched directly to Stirling. The river Forth, 
no where almost fordable, may there be passed 
over by a bridge of wood, tiiough it be increased 
by other rivers and the coming in of the tide. 
There Cressingham passed over with the 
greatest part of his army, but the bridge, ei- 
ther having its beams loosened or disjointed on 
purpose, by the skill of the architect, (as our 
writers say,) that so it might not be able to 
bear any great weight, or else being over- 
laden with the burden of so many horse and 
foot, and carriages, as passed over, was broken, 
and so the march of the rest of tiie English 
was obstructed : the Scots set upon those who 
were passed over, before they could put them- 
selves into a posture of defence ; and, having 
slain their captain, drove the rest back into the 
river: the slaughter was so great, that they were 
almost all either killed or drowned. Wallace 
returned from this fight to the besieging of 
castles ; and, in a short time, he so changed 
the face of affairs, that he left none of the 
English in Scotland, but such as were made 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



617 



prisoners. Tliis victory, wherein none of dis- 
tinction amongst the Scots fell, (save Andrew 
Murray, whose son sonic years after was re- 
gent of Scotland,) was obtained on the l-Jtli 
of Septeniber, in the year of Christ 1J297. 
Some say that Wallace was called off to this 
fight, not from the siege of Cowper, but Dun- 
dee, whither he returned after the fight. So 
John Major, and some books found in monas- 
teries, do relate.' " 

Note XII. 
Tlien many a high-pluvi'd gallant rcar'd his 

head, 
Jlnd proudhj smote the ground icith firmer 

tread, 
Who did, ere elose of evening, lye 
With ghastly face tunid to the sky. — P. 503 
How often has the contrast of the field be- 
fore a battle, and at the conclusion of the 
bloody day, been noticed by poets ! And 
there is one passage from a most spirited and 
beautiful poem on my present subject, which 
I must beg leave to transcribe. Had not the 
plan of ray Legend been so totally different, 
1 should never have presumed to enter upon 
ground which had already been so ably occu- 
pied. The poet, addressing the moou, as on 
the night before the fight of Falkirk, says, — 
" Why thou, fair orb, dost thou shine so bright 
As thou rollest on thy way ! 
Canst thou not hide thy silver light 
That the heavens, all. dark with the clouds of 

night, 
Might frown on yon fierce array ! 
But why should'st thou hide thy shining brow, 
Tliou who look'st through the midniglit sky ! 
Tho' the daemon who gives the world for woe 
Bids the tear descend and the life-blood flow. 
Thy place shall be still on high ! 
Thou look'st on man, — thou see'sthim blest 
In the light of his little day, — 
Thou look'st anon, he is gone to rest ! 
The cold worm creeps in his lordly breast. 
He sleeps in the grave's decay ! 
Thou saw'st him rise, — thou shalt see him fall. 
Thou shalt stay till the tomb hath cover 'd all; 
Till death has crush'd them one by one. 
Each frail but proud ephemeron ! 
To-morrow thy cold and tranquil eye 
Shall gaze again from the midnight sky ; 
With unquenched light, with ray serene. 
Thou shalt glance on the field where death 

hath been ; 
Thou shalt gild his features pale and wan. 
Thou shalt gaze on the form of murder'd man, 
On his broken armour scatter'd round, 
On the sever'd limb and yawning wound ; 
But thou, amidst the wreck of time, 
Unfrowning passest on, and keep'st thy path 

sublime." 

Miss Hoi ford's Wallace, Cant. II. 

Note XIII. 
Who did not spare their mother's sons that day, 
Jlnd ne'er shall be forgot. — P. 504. 



These words are nearly taken from an old 
song called .4w/rf lang syne : — 
" Su' John tiie Grame of lasting fame 
Shall never be forgot; 
He was an honour to the name, 
A brave and valiant Scot. 
The Douglas and the great Montrose 
Were heroes in their time ; 
These men spar'd not their mothers' sons 
For Auld lang syne." 

Note XIV. 
.ind he with foresight wise, to spare 
Poor Scotland, scourged, exhausted, hare. — 
P. 505. 

Buchanan's history : — " By means of these 
combustions, the fields lay untilled, insomucli 
that, after that overthrow, a famine ensued, 
and a pestilence after the famine. From 
whence a greater destruction was apprehend- 
ed than from the war : Wallace, to prevent 
this misfortune as much as he could, called 
together all those who were fit for service, to 
appear at a certain day, with whom he march- 
ed into England, thinking, with himself, that 
their bodies being exercised with labour, 
would be more healthy, and that wintering in 
the enemy's country, provisions would be 
spared at home ; and the soldiers, who were 
in much want, might reap some fruit of their 
labours in a rich country, and flourishing by 
reason of its continued peace. When he was 
entered into England, no man dared to attack 
him, so that he stayed there from the first of 
November to the first of February ; and hav- 
ing refreshed and enriched his soldiers with 
the fruits and spoils of the enemy, he returned 
home with great renown. This expedition, 
as it increased the fame and authority of 
Wallace amongst tlie vulgar, so it heightened 
the envy of the nobles," &c. &c. 

Holinshed also mentions Wallace's stay in 
England with his army. 



Nc 



XV. 



Edtcard meanzimc asham'd and wroth 

At such unseemly foil, and loth 

So to be bearded, sent defiance 

To Scotland's Chief.—?. 505. 
Buchanan's history : — " Moreover, the King 
of England, finding the business greater than 
could be managed by his deputies, made some 
settlement of things in France, and returned 
home, and gathering together a great army, 
but hastily levied, (for he brought not back 
his veteran soldiers from beyond sea.) and for 
the most part raw and inexperienced men, he 
marches toward Scotland, supposing ho had 
only to do with a disorderly band of robbers. 
But when he saw both armies in battle array, 
about five hundred paces from each other, in 
the plains of Stanmore, he admired the disci- 
pline, order, and confidence of his enemies. 
So that, though he himself had much greater 
force, yet he durst not put it to the hazard of 
a battle against such a veteran and so cxperi- 



618 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



enccd a Captain, and against soldiers enured 
to all liardwliips, and marched slowly back. 
Wallace, on tliL- otiiiT hand, durst not I'ollow 
him, for fear of ambuscades," &c. &c. 

Holinshed, who so often shews himselt 
very inimical to tiio Scotch, gives an account 
of the meeting of the Scotcli and English, on 
Stanniore, more favourable to the former than 
Buchanan : — 

* Ho (Wallace) entered into England at the 
time before appointed, where King Edward 
was readie with an arinie, upon Stanemoore, 
double in number to the Scots, to give them 
battell ; but when the time came that both 
Were readie to liave joined, the Englishmen 
withdrew, having no lust (as it should seem) 
to fight with the Scots at that time ; who per- 
ceiving them to give backe, incontinentilic 
would have rushed foorth of their ranks to 
have pursued in chase after them, but Wal- 
lace, doubting least the Englishmen had ment 
some policie, and saying that it was enough 
for him that he had forced such a great Prince, 
in his own country, to forsake the field, 
caused the Scots to keep together in order of 
battell; and so, preserving them from the 
malice of their enemies, brouglit them into 
Scotland with lives and honours saved, besides 
the infmit spoiles and booties which they got 
in their jornie." Holinshcd's Chrouidcs. 

NOTK XVI. 
And they vpon the ocean met, 
With warlike fleet, and sails full set, 
Dc Longoville, that hold outlaio. — P. 50G. 
Though, I believe, there is little mention 
made in history of Wallace's actions in France, 
j'et his being engaged in tlie wars against the 
English in that country, is highly probable, 
because a contemporary writer of his life 
would not venture to advance it, if it were 
untrue ; and those French wars arc transmit- 
ted to posterity by French writers, who would 
not willingly give much credit to warriors 
of another nation; or by English, who would 
be as little inclined to mention the prowess ot 
the Scotch, when listed under the banners of 
another kingdom. But so i-omantic a story 
as that of De Longoville on the high seas, 
might, perhaps, though entirely fanciful, ex- 
pect to pass with impunity. However, smce 
De Longoville is afterwards frequently men- 
tioned as a stanch adherent of our hero, and 
also as fighting under Robert Bruce, and can- 
not therefore be supposed to be an imaginary 
personage, some credit is due to the account 
given <il" their first recounter, and the gener- 
ous beginning of their friendship. 

Note XVH. 
Jlut envy of a Hero's fame 
IVhich so obscured each lofty name. — P. 507. 

Buchanan on this subject sa)'s : — " Having 
thus gut a victor}', though bloodless, (at Stan- 
more,) against so puissant a King, his ene- 
mies were so much the more enraged against 
Jiini. and caused rumour to be scattered up 



and down, that Wallace did openly aflFect a 
supreme or Ij'rannical power, which the no- 
bles, especially Bruce and the Cumins of the 
royal stock, took in mighty disdain. * * * 
And therefore they lietermined by all means 
to undermine the authority of Wallace. Ed- 
ward was not ignorant of these disgusts, and 
therefore the next summer he levies a great 
army, consisting partly of English, partly of 
Scots, who had remained faithful to him, and 
came to Falkirk, which is a village, built in 
the very track of the wail of Severus, and is 
distant from Stirling little more than six 
miles. The Scot's army were not far from 
them, of sufficient strength, for they were 
thirty thousand, if the generals and leaders 
had agreed amongst themselves : their gener- 
als were, John Cumin, John Stuart, and 
William Wallace, the most flourishing per- 
sons amongst the Scots ; the two former for 
their high descent and opulency ; the latter 
for the glory of his former exploits. 

" When the army, in three squildrons, was 
roadv to fight, a new dispute arose, besides 
their former envy, who should lead tlie van 
of the army ; and when all three stood upon 
their terms, the English decided the contro- 
versy, who, with banners displayed, marched 
witli a swift pace towards them. Cumin and 
his forces retreated without striking a stroke; 
Stuart being beset before and behind, was 
slain, with all that followed him : Wallace 
was sorely pressed upon in the front, and 
Bruce had fetched a compass about a hill, and 
fell on his rear ; yet he was as little disturbed ' 
as, in sucli circumstances, he could possibly 
bo, but retreated beyond the River Carron, 
where, by the interposition of the' river, he 
had got an opportunity to defend himself, and 
also to gather up the straggling fugitives; 
and Bruce, desirous to speak with him, he 
agreed to it. They two stood over against 
one to another where the river hath tiie nar- 
rowest channel and the highest banks. * 
* * * This battle was fought 
on the 22d of July, when there fell of the 
Scots above ten thousand, of whom, of the 
nobles, were, John Stuart, Macduft", Earl of 
Fife, and of Wallace his army, John Greme, 
the most valiant person of the Scots, next to 
Wallace himself" 

Holinshed likewise mentions the envy and 
jealous hatred which many of the nobles ])ar- 
ticularly Cumin, conceived against Wallace, 
as a man of comparatively mean origin, and 
their entering into a league with Edward to 
betray him. He notices the dispute between 
Wallace and Stuart about leading the van, at 
the battle of Falkirk, and Cumin and his fol- 
lowers quitting the field as the armies were 
about to join battle, and the great slaughter 
made of the Scots by Bruce ; but he adds : 
•' Yet Wallace left nothing undone that might 
pcrteine to the duty of a valiant capteine. 
But at length all his endeavours, notwith- 
standing the Scots (overcome with multitude 
of numbers, as the Scottish writers say.) were 



WILLIAiM WALLACE. 



S19 



sleine in such huge numbers that he was 
constreined to draw out of the field with such 
small remnant as were left alive." 

He then relates the meeting between him 
and Bruce, on the banks of the Carron. 

Note XVIH. 
JVitli jlashing eye and dark red brow 
He uttered then a /tasty vow. — P. 507- 
That Wallace withdrew from" the field, in 
tlio bitterness of his resentment for the in- 
gratitude of the nobles and the insults he re- 
ceived, binding himself by a rash vow from 
taking any part in the combat, is not men- 
tioned, I believe, by any general historian or 
chronicler ; but as it is stated so circumstan- 
tially by Harry the Minstrel, who professes to 
take the matter of his poem so scrupulously 
from the life of Wallace, written by his friend 
and contemporary Blair, and being the only 
shade cast upon the public virtue of our hero, 
which a friend would willingly (but for the 
love of truth) have omitted, I must consider it 
as authentic. The private visit received by 
him from Edward's Queen while in England, 
and other matters, tending to add to the glory 
of his friend and hero, are of a more doubtful 
character, and have not therefore been ad- 
mitted into this legend. 

Note XIX. 

But from the ground 

They like th' cncha fed lion hound. 

Rage is their sorrow, grimly fed, 

And blood the tears they shed. — P. 508. 
Blind Harry, page 328. — 
" When Wallace saw this knight [Grame] to 

dead was brought 
The piteous pain so sore thrill'd in his 

thought; 
All out of kind it alter'd his courage. 
His wit in war was then but a wood rage. 
His horse him bore in field where so him list. 
For of himself as then little he wist; 
Like a wild beast that were from reason rent, 
As witlessly into the host he went; 
Dinging on hard ; what Southeron he right 

hit 
Straight upon horse again might never sit. 
Into that rage full feil folk he dang down, 
All about him was red a full great room." 

Note XX. 
The Scot/ish soldiers, scattcr'd wide, ' 

Hath Wallace round his standard drawn. 
Hath cheer d their spirits, rous'd their yride, 
Jind led them where their foes they found 
All listless, scatter d on the ground. — 
P. 509. 

As we find the English not pursuing this 
victory, but presently retiring to their, own 
country, whilst Wallace is at liberty to sum- 
mons a general convention of the states at 
St. Johnston, it is probable they received 
some severe check from the arm of that chief- 
tain after the battle, though it is not stated in 



general history. It is indeed said, that the 
English retired for fear of an attack from the 
French in their own country ; but as no such 
attack followed or seemed really to have been 
intended, it is likely that this was only their 
excuse for retreating. This opinion is cor- 
roborated, too, by the manner in which Hol- 
inshed mentions Wallace's resignation of all 
public authority soon after, at Perth or St. 
Johnston : — 

" But, notwithstanding all these valiant 
speeches of Wallace, (alluding to his confer- 
ence with Bruce on the banks of the Carron,) 
when he considered the. unfortunate discom- 
fiture by him so treacherouslie received, he 
came to Perth, and tliere uttering, by com- 
plaint, the injurious envie of the nobles 
against him, he renounced and discharged 
himself of all the authority which had been 
committed to his hands touching the govern- 
ance of the realme, and went into France, as 
saith Lesleus ; but Johanus Maior saitii, he 
never came there, though he will not flatlie 
denie it." 

Had Edward, after gaining so great a vic- 
tory ar Falkirk, received no check, Wallace 
could not have been in condition to renounce 
his authority in so high a tone as is here im- 
puted to him by an English author, who cer- 
tainly cannot be accused of aity partiality to 
the Scotch. 

Note XXI. 
Retaining in that potent hand 
Which thrice redeemed its native land.— V. 509. 

First after the battle of Biggar he freed the 
country generally from dependence on Eng- 
land, though Edward still held many places 
of strength in the Scotland ; then, after the 
burning°of the Barns of Air, he ahuost en- 
tirely drove his adherents out of it ; and third- 
ly, after the battle of Stirling he completely 
freed Scotland from the enemy. 

Note XXII. 
The sound ev'n of his lohisper'd name 
Revived in faithful hearts the smother d flame, 
And many secretly to join his standard came. 
—P. 509. 

I have in this part of the story adhered to 
Blair and the Minstrel, though there is nothing 
correspondent to it in either Holinshed or 
Buchanan, except what may be gleaned from^ 
the following passages. After his account of 
the battle of Roslin, fought probably when 
Wallace was in France, and the succeeding 
invasion of Edward into Scotland, Holinshed 
says, " The Scots perceiving they were not 
of puissance able to resist his invasion, with- 
drew to their strengths, by means whereof 
the English army passed through all Scot- 
land, even from the south parts unto the 
north, and found few or none to make resist- 
ance, except Wallace, and such as followed 
his opinion, who were fled to the mountains 
and the woods, &c. 

Buchanan says, " To blot out the ignominy 



jio 



WILLIAM WALLACK. 



(of his defeat at Roslin,) and put an end at 
Dnco t" ;i lou'j; and tedious war, lio (Edward) 
Iherelore levies an army bigger than ever he 
liad before, and assaulted Scotland both by 
sea and land, and made si)oil of it even unto 
the uttermost borders of Ross, no man daring 
to oppose so great a force. Only Wallace 
and his men, sometimes in the front, some- 
times in the rear, sometimes in the flanks, 
would snap either those that rashly went be- 
fore or loitered beliind, or that in plundering 
straggled too far from the main body ; nei- 
ther did he suffer them to stray from their col- 
ours. 

Note XXIII. 
Then, Edward thought the Chief to gain, 
And win him to his princely side 
IVith trcasur' d gold and honours vain. — P. 509. 

Holinshed'a Chronicles : — " It is said that 
King Edward required by a messenger sent 
unto this Wallace, that if he would come in 
and be sworn his liege-man and true subject, 
ho would have at his hands great lordsliips 
and possessions within England to mainteine 
his post, as was requisite to a man of verie 
honourable estate. But Wallace refused these 
offers, saieng that he preferred liberty with 
small revenues in Scotland before anie pos- 
session of lands in England, were the same 
never so great ; considering he might not en- 
joy them under the yoke of bondage. * 
"^ * * * Furthermore before his 
(King Edward's) departure out of Scotland, 
lie appointed all the Scottish nobles to assem- 
ble at Scone, where he called tliem to take a 
new oth, that from henceforth they would 
take him for their Sovereigne Lord, and to 
obcie him in all things as loial subjects. All 
the nobility of Scotland was sworne to him 
tliat day, Wallace onlie excepted, who es- 
chued more than the companie of aserpent to 
have anie thing to doo v/ith the English, 
touching anie agreement to be made with 
them, agreeable to their desires." 

Buchanan also says, " Edward sought by 
great promises to bring him over to his party ; 
but his constant tone was, that he devoted his 
life to his country, to which it was due ; and 
if he could do it no further service, yet he 
would die irj pious endeavours for its de- 
fence." He also mentions Wallace's refusing 
to take the oath of allegiance, taken by all the 
nobles of Scotland. 

Note XXIV. 
Monlcith, a name tchichfrom that day, I wrrji, 
Ilaltful to every Scottish car hath br.cn. — P. 510. 

Buchanan, after relating the tyrannical use 
which Edv/ard made of his j)ower, burning 
the records of Scotland, &c. and the story 
of Bruce being betrayed by Cumin, &c. &c., 
says, " About this time also, Wallace was be- 
trayed in the county of Glasgow (where he 
)»,ul hid himself) by his own familiar friend 
.lolui Monfeitii, whgui the English had cor- 
rupted with money, and so v.'as sent to Lon- 



don, where by Edward's commands he was 
wofully butchered, and his limbs, for the ter- 
ror of others, hanged up in the most noted 
places of London and Scotland." 

Ilolinshed says, •' About the same time was 
William Wallace taken at Glasgow, by means 
of Sir John Monteith and others, in whom he 
had ever put a most speciall trust ; but they 
being corrupted with the offer of large re- 
wards, promised by King Edward to such as 
wuld helpe to take him, wrought such fetch- 
es, that he was apprehended at last by Odo- 
niere de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, who, 
with a great power of men, brought him to 
London, where he was put to death, and his 
quarters sent to Scotland, and set up in sun- 
drie great towns there for a spectacle, as it 
were, to give example to others." 

Note XXV. 
Meekly he bow'd o'er head and book, 
Jlnd every ivorldly thought forsook. — P. 510. 

The blind Minstrel gives this account of 
his death, page 398. — 
"On Wednesday false Southeron forth him 

brought 
To martyr him, as they before had wrought. 
Ilight sooth it is a Martyr Wallace was, 
As°Oswald, Edward, Edmund and Thomas. 
Of men in arms led him a full great rout. 
With a bold spirit, Wallace blinked about. 
A Priest he asked for God who died on 

tree." 
Then, after telling how King Edward re- 
fused his request, and was rebuked for so do- 
ing by an English Bishop, he continues, — 
" A slierift"gart his clerk soon from him pass, 
Right as they durst, they grant what he 

would ask. 
A psalter book Wallace had on him ever. 
From his childhood with it he would not 

sever ; 
Better he trowed in viage for to speed. 
But then he was dispulzied of his weed. 
This grace he ask'd of Lord Clifford, that 

knight. 
To let him have his psalter book in sight ; 
He gart a Priest it open before him hold, 
While they to him had done all that they 

would. 
Steadfast he read for ought they did him 

thare. 
Fell Southcrons said that Wallace felt no 

sare. 
Good devotion, so was his beginning, 
Continued, therewith, and fair was his cnd- 

While speech and spirit all at once can fair 
To lasting bliss, we trow, for ever mare." 

Note XXVI. 
In wan\i a castle, town, and plain, 
Momitain and forest, still remain 
Fondly chcriskd spots which claim, 
The proud distinction rf his honour' d name. — 
P. 511. 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 



521 



This is too well known to require any con- 
firmation ; but I cannot help mentioning the 
pleasure I lately received in being shown, by 
two simple country children on tlie Blantyre 
Craigs, opposite to Both well Castle, (one of 
those castles which brfasts the honour of hav- 
ing a Wallace's tower,) the mark of Wal- 
lace's footstep in the rocky brink of a little 
trickling well. 

Note XXVII. 

Led by the brave of modern days. — 

Such, Mercrombie, fought loith thee! — P. 511. 

I have named our distinguished Scotch lead- 
ers only as being naturally connected with 
the subject. That I have meant no neglect 
to other brave commanders of these warlike 
days, when our troops from every part of the 
United Kingdoms have fought so valiantly 
and successfiillj', under the ablest general 
that has appeared since the time of the great 
Marlborough, will, 1 suppose, be readily be- 
lieved. 

Note XXVIII. 

O Scotland ! -proud may be thy boast ! 

Since time his course thro' circling years hath 

run, 
There hath not shone in Fame's bright host, 
A nobler hero than thy patriot Son. — P. 511. 



Buchanan gives this noble testimony to his 
worth : — 

" Such an end had this person, the most 
famous man of the age in which he lived, 
who deserved to be compared to the most re- 
nowned captains of ancient times, both for 
his greatness of mind in undertaking dangers, 
and for his valour and wisdom in overcoming 
them. For love to his country, he was sec- 
ond to none ; who, when others were slaves, 
was alone free, neither could be induced by 
any rewards or moved by threats to forsake 
the public cause which he had once underta- 
ken." 

" A thousand thre hundyr and the fyft yhere 
Efter the byrth of our Lord dere, 
Schyre John of Menteth in tha days 
Tak in Glasgow Willame Walays, 
And send him in-till Ingland swne, 
Thare he was qwateryd and wndvvne. 
Be dyspyte and hat enwy ; 
There he tholyd this maryry. 

In all Ingland thare was nought thane 
As Willame Walays swa lele a mane. 
Quhat he did agayne that natyown 
Thai made him provocatyown : 
Na to them oblyst nevyr was he, 
In fayth full owschype na sawte ; 
For in his tyme, I hard well say, 
That fykkit thai ware, all tyneof fay." 

fVyntown's Chronicle, page 130. 



65 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



Is tliore a man, that, from some lofly steep, 
Views in liis wide survey the boundless deep, 
Wlien its vast waters, lined with sun and shade , 
Wave beyond wave, in seried distance, fade 
To the pale sky ; — or views it, dimly seen, 
The shifting skreens of drifted mist between, 
As the huge cloud dilates its sable form. 
When grandly curtain'd by th' approaching 

storm, — 
Who feels not his aw'd soul with wonder rise 
To Him whose power created sea and skies, 
Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight 
The wonders of the day and of the night ? 
But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride. 
Whose ^tately ships the restless billows ride, 
While each, with lofty masts and bright'- 

ning sheen 
Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested 

Queen ; — 
Or rather, be some distant bark, astray. 
Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way, 
Holding its stead}' course from port and shore, 
A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more, — 
How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame. 
Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame ! 
" O Thou ! whose mandate dust inert obey'd ! 
" What is this creature man whom thou hast 

made ! " 



On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand 
Bore priests anil nobles of the land. 
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim. 
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim. 
And lowly maids and dames of pride, 
And infants by their mother's side, — 
The boldest seaman stood that e'er 
Did bark or ship throtigh tempest steer j 
And wise as bold, and good as wise ; 
The magnet of a thousand eyes. 
That on his ibrm and features cast. 
His noble mien and simple guise. 
In wonder seem'd to look their last. 
A form which conscious worth is gracing, 
A face where hope, the lines effacing 
Of thought and.care, bestow'd, in truth. 
To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing 
The look and air of youth. 

II. 
Who, in his lofty gait, and high 
Expression of th' enliohten'd eye, 
Had recognis'd in that bright hour 
The disappointed supi)liant of dull power. 
Who had in vain of states and kings desired 
The pittance for his vast emprise required ? — 
The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint 

liyht. 
O'er chart and map spent the long silent 

niffht '' — 



The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore, 
Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and 
earth adore ? 

III. 
Another world is in his mind. 
Peopled with creatures of his kind, 
With hearts to feel, with minds to soar, 
Thoughts to consider and explore ; 
Souls, who might find, from trespass shriven, 
Virtue on earth and joy in heaven. 
" That power divine, whom storms obey," 
(Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star. 
Will guide him on his blessed way ; 
Brothers to join by fate divided far. 
Vain thoughts ! which Heaven doth but or- 
dain 
In part to be, the rest, alas .' how vain ! 

IV. 

But hath there liv'd of mortal mould. 

Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold 

An even race .' Earth's greatest son 

That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won, 

Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope, 

A stinted portion of his ample hope. 

With heavy sigh and look depress'd, 

The greatest men will sometimes hear 

The story of their acts address'd 

To the young stranger's wond'ring ear, 

And check the half-swoln tear. 

Is it or modesty or pride 

Which may not open praise abide .'' 

No ; read his inward thoughts : they tell, 

His deeds of fame he prizes well. 

But, ah ! they in his fancy stand. 

As relicks of a blighted band. 

Who, lost to man's approving sight. 

Have perish'd in the gloom of night, 

Ere yet the glorious light of day 

Had glitter'd on their bright array. 

His mightiest feat had once another, 

Of high imagination born, — 

A loftier and a nobler brother, 

From dear existence torn ; 

And she for those, who are not, steeps 

Her soul in woe, — like Rachel, weeps. 

V. 

The signal given, with hasty strides 

The sailors climb'd their ships' dark sides; 

Their anchors weigh'd ; and from the shore 

Each stately vessel slowly bore. 

High o'er the deeply shadow'd flood, 

Upon his deck their leader stijod. 

And turn'd him to the parted land. 

And bow'd his head and waved his hand. 

And then, along the crowded strand, 

A sound of many sounds combin'd, 

That wax'd and wan'd ujjon the wind. 

Burst like heaven's thunder, deep and grand ; 

A lenfthen'd peal, which paused, and then 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



623 



Renew'd, like that wliich loathly parts, 
Oft on the ear re turn 'd again, 
The impulse of a thousand hearts. 
But as the lengthen'd shouts subside, 
Distincter accents strike the ear, 
Wafting across the current wide, 
Heart-utter'd words of parting cheer : 
" Oh ! shall we ever see again 
" Those gallant souls rc-cross the main ? 
" God keep the brave ! God be their guide ! 
" God bear them safe thro' storm and tide ! 
" Their sails with fav'ring breezes swell I 
" O brave Columbus ! fare thee well ! " 

VI. 
From shore and strait, and gulph and bay, 
■The vessels held their daring way, 
Left far behind, in distance thrown, 
All land to Moor or Christian known. 
Left far behind the misty isle, 
Whose fitful shroud, withdrawn the while, 
Shews wood and hill and headland bright 
To later seamen's wond'ring sight, 
And tide and sea left far behind 
That e'er bore freight of human kind ; 
Where ship or bark to shifting gales, 
E'er tack'd their course or spread their sails. 
Around them lay a boundless main 
In which to hold their silent reign ; 
But for the passing current's flow. 
And cleft waves, brawling round the prow, 
They might have thought some magic spell 
Had bound them, weary fate ! forever there 
to dwell. 

VII. 

What did this trackless waste supply 
To soothe the mind or please the eye ? 
The rising morn thro' dim mist breaking. 
The flicker'd east with purple streaking ; 
The mid-day cloud thro' thin air flying. 
With deeper blue the blue sea dying ; 
Long ridgy waves their white mains rearing, 
And in the broad gleam disappearing ; 
The broaden'd blazing sun declining. 
And western waves like fire-flood shining; 
The sky's vast dome to darkness given. 
And all the glorious host of heaven. 

VIII. 
Full oft upon the deck, while other's slept. 
To mark the bearing of each well-known star 
That shone aloft, or on th' horizon far, 
The anxious Chief his lonely vigil kept; 
The mournful wind, the hoarse wave break- 
ing near, 
■The breathing groans of sleep, the plunging 

lead , 
The steer's man's call, and his own stilly 

tread. 
Are all the sounds of night that reach his ear. 
His darker form stalk d through the sable 

gloom 
With gestures discomposed and features keen. 
That might not in the face of day be seen. 
Like some unblessed spirit from the tomb. 
Night after night, and day succeeding day. 
So pass'd their dull, unvaried time away ; 



Till Hope, the seaman's worship'd queen, had 

flown 
From every valiant heart but his alone ; 
Where still, by day, enthron'd, she held her 

state 
Willi sunny look and brow elate. 

IX. 

But soon his dauntless soul, which nought 

could bend, 
Nor hope delay'd, nor adverse fate subdue, 
With more redoubled danger must contend 
Than storm pr wave — a fierce and angry 

crew. 
" Dearly," say they, " may v. e those visions 

rue 
" Which lured us from our native land, 
" A wretched, lost, devoted band, 
" Led on by hope's delusive gleam, 
"The victims of a madman's dream 1 
" Nor gold shall e'er be o.urs, nor lame ; 
" Not ev'n the remnant of a name, 
'• On some rude-letter'd stone to tell 
" On what strange coast our wreck befell. 
" For us no requiem shall be sung, 
" Nor praj-er be said, nor passing knell 
" In holy church be rung." 

X. 

To thoughts like these, all forms give way 

Of duty to a leader's sway ; 

All habits of respect, that bind 

With easy tie the human mind. 

Ev'n love and admiration throw 

Their nobler bands aside, nor show 

A gentler mien ; relations, friends, 

Glare on him now like angry fiends ; 

And, as he moves, ah, wretched cheer ! 

Their mutter'd curses reach his ear : 

But all undaunted, firm and sage. 

He scorns their threats, yet lluis he soothes 

their rage : 
" 1 brought you from your native shore 
" An unknown ocean to ejcplore. 
" 1 brought you, partners, by my side, 
" Want, toil, and danger, to abide. 
" Yet weary stillness hath so soon subdued 
" The buoyant soul, the heart of pride, 
" Men who in battle's brunt full olt have firmly 

stood. 
" That to some nearing coast we bear, 
" How many cheering signs declare ! 
" Way-faring birds the blue air ranging, 
" Their shadowy line to blue air changing, 
" Pass o'er our heads in frequent flocks ; 
" While sea-weed from the parent rocks 
" With fibry- roots, but newly torn 
" In tressy lengthen'd wreaths are en the clear 

v/ave borne. 
" Nay, has not ev'n the drifting current 

brought 
"Things of rude art,— of human cunning 

wrought .'' 
" Be yet two days your patience tried, 
'• And if no shore is then descried, 
" Ev'n turn your dastard prows again, 
" And cast your leader to the main." 



524 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



XI. 



And thus awhile with steady hand 

He kept in clieck a wayward band, 

Wlio but witli half'-express'd disdain 

Their rebel spirit could restrain. 

The vet'ran rough as war-worn steel, 

Oft spurn'd the deck witli grating- heel; 

The seaman, bending o'er the flood, 

With stony gaze all Hstless stood ; 

The sturdy bandit, wildly rude, 

Sung, as ho strode, some garbled strain. 

Expressive of each fitful mood,. 

Timed by his sabre's jangling chain 

The proud Castilian, boasted name I 

Child of an ancient race 

Which proudly priz'd its spotless fame. 

And deeni'd all fear disgrace, 

Felt quench'd within him honour's generous 

flame. 
And in his gather'd. mantle wrapp'd his face. 

XII. 

So pass'd the day, the night, the second day 
With its red setting sun's extinguish'd ray. 
Dark, solemn midnight coped the ocean wide, 
When from his watchful stand Columbus 

cried, 
'•■ A light, a light ! " — blest sounds that rung 
In every ear. — At once they sprung 
With haste aloft, and, peering bright, 
Descried afar the blessed sight. 
" It moves, it slowly moves like ray 
" Of torch that guides some wand'rer's way ! 
" And other lights more distant, seeming 
" As if from town or hamlet streaming ! 
" 'Tis land, 'tis peopled land ; man dwelleth 

there, 
" And thou, O God of heaven ! hast heard 

thy servant's prayer I " 

XIII. 

Returning day gave to their view 
The distant shore and headlands blue 
Of long-sought land. Then rose on air 
Loud shouts of joy, mix'd wildly strange 
With voice of weeping and of prayer. 
Expressive of their blessed change 
From death to life, from fierce to kind, 
From all that sinks, to all that- elevates the 

mind. 
Those who, by faithless fear ensnared. 
Had their brave chief so rudely dared, 
Now, with keen self-upbraiding stung. 
With every manly feeling wrung, 
Ilepentant tears, looks that entreat. 
Are kneeling at his worshipp'd feet. 
" O pardon JDlinded, stubborn guilt ! 
" O henceforth make us what thou wilt I 
" Our hands, our hearts, our lives, are thine, 
" Thou wond'rous man ! led on by power 

divine ! " 

XIV. 

Ah ! would some magic could arrest 
The generous feelings of the breast. 
Which thwart the common baser mass 
Of sordid thoughts, so fleetly pass, — 
A sun glimpse thro' the storm ! 



The rent cloud closes, tempests swell, 
And its late path we cannot tell ; 
Lost is its trace and form. 
No ; not on earth such fugitives are bound ; 
In some veil'd future state will the bless'd 
charm be found. 



XV. 

Columbus led them to the shore, 
Which ship had never touch'd before ; 
And there he knelt upon the strand 
To thank the God of sea and land ; 
And there, with mien and look elate. 
Gave welcome to each toil-worn mate. 
And lured with courteous signs of cheer, 
The dusky natives gath'ring near; 
Who on them gazed with wond'ring eyes, 
As mission'd spirits from the skies. 
And there did he possession claim, 
In Isabella's royal name. 

XVI. 

It was a land, unmarr'd by art, 
To please the eye and cheer the heart : 
The natives' simple huts were seen 
Peeping their palmy groves between, — 
Groves, where each dome of sweepy leaves 
In air of morning gently heaves, 
And, as the deep vans fall and rise, 
Changes its richly verdant dies ; 
A land whose simple sons till now 
Had scarcely seen a careful brow ; 
They spent at will each passing day 
In lightsome toil or active play. 
Some their light canoes were guiding, 
Along the shore's sweet margin gliding-. 
Some in the sunny sea were swimming. 
The bright waves o'er their dark forms gleam- 
ing ; 
Some on the beach for shell-fish stooping, 
Or on the smooth sand gaily trooping ; 
Or in link'd circles featly dancing 
With golden braid and bracelet glancing. 
By shelter'd door were infants creeping. 
Or on the shaded herbage sleeping ; 
Gay featlier'd birds the air were winging. 
And parrots on their high perch swinging, 
Wiiile humming-birds, like sparks of light, 
Twinkled and vanish'd from the sight. 

XVII. 
They eyed the wond'rous strangers o'er and 

o'er, — 
Those beings of the oceiin and the air, 
With humble, timid rev'rence ; all their store 
Of gather'd wealth inviting them to share ; 
To share whate'er their lowly cabins hold; 
Their featlier'd crowns, their fruits,, their 

arms, their gold. 
Their gold, that fiital gift ! — O foul disgrace ! 
Repaid with cruel wreck of all their harmless 
race. 

xvni. 

There some short, pleasing days with them he 

dwelt. 
And all their simple kindness dearly felt. 
But they of other countries told. 
Not distant, where the sun declines, 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



525 



Where reign Caziques o'er warriors bold, 
Ricii with the gold of countless mines. 
And he to other islands sail'd, 
And was by other natives hail'd. 
Then on Hispaniola's shore, 
Where bays and harbours to explore 
Much time he spent ; a simple tower 
Of wood he built, the seat to be 
And shelter of Spain's infant power ; 
Hoping the nurseling fair to see, 
Amidst those harmless people shoot 
Its stately stem from slender root. 
There nine and tliirty chosen men he placed, 
Gave parting words of counsel and of cheer; 
One after one his nobler friends embraced, 
■And to the Indian chieftain, standing near, 
" Befriend my friends, and give them aid, 
" When I am gone," he kindly said, 
Blest them, and left them there his homeward 
course to steer. 

XIX. 

His prayer to Heaven for them proferr'd 

Was not, alas ! with favour heard. 

Oft, as his ship the land forsook, 

He landward turned his farewell look, 

And cheer'd his Spaniards cross the wave. 

Who distant answer faintly gave ; 

Distant but cheerful. On the strand 

He saw their clothed figures stand 

With naked forms link'd liand in hand I — 

Saw thus caress'd, assured, and bold, 

Those he should never more behold. 

Some simple Indians, gently won. 

To visit land, where sets the sun 

In clouds of amber, and behold. 

The wonders 6ft by Spaniards told ; 

Stood silent by themselves apait, 

With nature's yearnings at their heart, 

And saw the coast of fading blue 

Wear soft and sadly from their view. 

But soon by their new comrades cheer'd, 

As o'er the waves the ship career'd. 

Their wond'ring eyes aloft were cast 

On white swoln sails and stately mast. 

And check'ring shrouds, depicted fair. 

On azure sea and azure air ; 

And felt, as feels tlie truant boy. 

Who, having climb'd some crumbling mound 

Or ruin'd tower, looks wildly round, — 

A thrilhng, fearful joy. 

XX. 

Tiien with his two small barks again 
The dauntless Chief travers'd the main ; 
But not with fair and fav'ring gales 
That erst had fill'd his western sails : 
Fierce winds with adverse winds contended ; 
Rose the dark deep, — dark heaven descended. 
And threaten'd, m the furious strife, 
The ships to sink with all their freight of pre- 
cious life. 

XXI. 

In this dread case, well may be gucss'd 
What dismal tlioughts his soul deprcss'd :• 
" And must I in th' o'erwhelming deep, 
" Our bold achievement all unknown. 



" With these my brave advent'rers sleep, — • 

" What we-have done todark oblivion thrown? 

" Sink, body ! to thy wat'ry grave, 

" If so God will ; but let me save 

" Tliis noble fruitage of my mind, 

" And leave my name and deeds behind ! " 

XXII. 
Upon a scroll, with hasty pen. 
His wond'rous tale he traced, 
View'd it with tearful eyes, and then 
Within a casket placed. 
" Perhaps," said he, " by vessel bound 
" On western cruize, thou wilt be found ; 
" Or make, sped by the current swift, 
" To Christian shore they happy drift. 
" Thy story may by friendly ej^es be read; 
" O'er our untimely fate warm tears be shed ; 
" Our deeds rehears'd by many an eager 

tongue , 
" And requiems for our parted souls be sung. " 
This casket to the sea he gave ; 
Quick sunk and rose the freightage light, — 
Appear'd on many a booming wave, 
Then floated far away from his still gazing 

sight. 
Yet, after many a peril braved, — 
Of many an adverse wind the sport, 
He, by his Great Preserver saved, , 

Anckor'd again in Palos' port. 

XXIII. 
O, who can tell the acclamation loud 
That, bursting, rose from the assembled crowd, 
To hail tlio Hero and his gallant train. 
From such adventure bold return'd again ! — ^ 
The warm embrace, the oft-repeated cheer. 
And many a wistful smile and many a tear I — 
How, pressing close, they stood ; 
Look'd on Columbus with amaze, — 
" Is he," so spake their wond'ring gaze, 
" A man of flesh and blood ? " 
While cannon far along the shore 
His welcome gave with deafning roar. 

XXIV. 
And then with measur'd steps, sedate and 

slow, 
They to the Christian's sacred temple go. 
Soon as the chief within the house of God 
Upon tlie hallow'd pavement trod, 
He bowed with holy fear : — 
'• The God of wisdom, mercy, might, 
" Creator of the day and night, 
" This sea-girt globe, and every star of light, 
" Is worshipp'd here." 
Then on the altar's steps he knelt, 
And what his inward spirit felt. 
Was said unheard within that cell 
Where saintly thoughts and feelings dwell ; 
But as the choral channters raise 
Thro' dome and aisle the hymn of praise, 
To heaven his glist'ning eyes were turn'd. 
With sacred love his bosom burn'd. 
On all the motley crowd 
Tlie gen'rous impulse seized ; high Dons of 

pride 
Wept like the meekostbeedsman by their side, 
And women sobb'd aloud. 



52G 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



,XXV. 

Nor statesmej>>rTiet in liigh debate. 
Deciclin2;„»na country's fate, 
Nor saimly chiefs witli fearless zeal 
Contending for their churches' weal, 
Nor warriors, midst the battle's roar, 
Who fiercely guard their native shore ; — 
No power by earthly coil possest 
To agitate the luinian breast, 
Shows, from its native source diverted, 
Man's nature noble, tho' perverted. 
So strongly as the transient pov.'er 
Of link'd devotion's sympathetic hour. 
It clothes with soft unwonted grace 
The traits of many a rugged face, 
As bend the knees unused to kneel, 
And glow the hearts unused to feel ; 
V/iiilo every soul, with holy passion moved, 
Claims one Almighty Sire, fear'd, and adored, 
and loved. 

XXVI. 
With western treasures, borne in fair display. 
To Barcelona's walls, in grand array, 
Columbus slowly held his inland way. 
And still where'er he pass'd alonn-, 
In eager crowds the people throng. 
Tlie wildest \va.y o'er desert drear, 
Did like a city's mart appear. 
Tiie shepherd swain forsook his sheep ; . 
The goat-herd from his craggy steep 
Shot like an arrow to the plain ; 
Meclianics, housewives, left amain 
Their broken tasks, and press'd beside 
The truant youth they meant to chide : 
The dull Hida-lgo left his tower, 
The Donna fair her latticed bower ; 
Togetiier press'd, fair and uncouth. 
All motley forms of age and youth. 
And, still along the dark-ranged pile 
Of clust'ring life, was heard the while 
Mix'd brawling joy, and shouts that rung 
From many a loud and deaf'ning tongue. 
Ah ! little thought the gazing throng. 
As pass'd that pageant show along, 
How Spain should rue, in future times, 
With desert plains and fields untill'd. 
And towns with listless loit'rers fill'd, 
Tiie with'ring spoil receiv'd from foreign 

climes ! 
Columbus gave thee, thankless Spain ! 
A new-found world o'er which to reign ; 
But could not with the gift impart 
A portion of his liberal heart 
And manly mind, to bid thee soar 
Above a robber's lust of ore. 
Which hath a curse entail'd on all thy count- 
less store.' 

XXVII. 

To Barcelona come, with honours meet 
Such glorious deeds to grace, his sov'reigns 

greet 
Their mariner's return. Or hall. 
Or room of state was doem'd too smnll 
For such reception. Pageant rare I 
Beneath heaven's dome, in open squ.ire, 
Their gorgeous thrones were placed ; 



And near them on a humbler seat. 
While on each hand the titled great, 
Standing in dizen'd rows, were seen. 
Priests, guards, and crowds, a living screen, — 
Columbus sat, with noble mien, 
With ])rincely honours graced. 
There to the royal pair his tale he told : 
A wond'rous tale, that did not want 
Or studied words or braggart's vaunt; 
When at their royal feet were laid 
Gems, pearls, and plumes of many a shade, 
And stores of virgin gold. 
Whilst, in their feathered guise arrayed, 
The Indians low obeisance paid. 
And at that wond'rous story's close 
The royal pair with rcv'rencc rose. 
And kneeling on the ground, aloud 
Gave thanks to Heaven. Then all the crowd, 
Joining, from impulse of the heart. 
The banded priest's extatic art. 
With mingled voice Te Deumsang; 
With the grand choral burst,' walls, towers, 
and welkin rang. 

XXVIII. 

This was his brightest hour, too bright 
For human weal ; — a glaring light. 
Like sunbeam thro' the rent cloud pouring 
On the broad lake, when storms are roaring; 
Bright centre of a wild and sombre scene ; 
More keenly bright than Sunnner's settled 

sheen. 

XXIX. 
Witli kingly favour brighten'd, all 
His favour court, obey his call. 
At princely boards, above the rest, 
He took his place, admir'd, caress'd : 
Proud was the Don of high degree, 
Whose hcnour'd guest he deign'd to be. 
Whate'er his purpos'd service wanted, 
With ready courtesy was granted : 
No envious foe durst cross his will. 
While eager ship-wrights ply their skill, 
To busy dock-yard, quay, or port, 
Priests, lords, and citizens resort: 
Their wains the heavy planks are bringing, 
And hammers on the anvil ringing; 
The far-toss'd boards on boards aie falling. 
And brawny mate to work-mate calling ; 
The cable strong on windlass winding ; 
On wheel of stone the edge-tool grinding; 
Red fire beneath the caldron gleaming. 
And pitchy fumes from caldron steaming. 
To sea and land's men too, I ween, 
It was a ga)', attractive scene ; 
Beheld, enjoyed, day after day. 
Till all his ships, in fair array. 
Were bounden for their course at last, 
And am[)ly stored and bravely niann'd. 
Bore far from blue, receding land. 
Thus soon again, tli' Atlantic vast 
With gallant fleet he past. 
.XXX. 
Viv penrcful natives liuil'd with kindly smiles, 
\\c flhorlly toucli'd at vnrious pleasant isles; 
And when at lengiii her well-j-nown shore 

appear d. 



CHRISTOPIIFSR COLUMBUS. 



527 



And he to fair ilispaniola near'd, 
Upon the deck, with eager eyes, 
Some friendly signal to descry, 
He stood ; then fir'd his signal shot, 
But answ'ring fire received not. 
" What may this dismal silence mean .' 
" No floating flag in air is seen, 
" Nor ev'n the Tower itself, tho' well 
" Its lofty scite those landmarks tell. 
" Ha ! have they so regardless proved 
" Of my command .' — their station moved ! " 
As closer to the shore ihcy drew, 
To hail them camo no light canoe ; 
The heach was silent and forsaken : 
Nor cloth'd nor naked forms appeared. 
Nor sound of human voice was licard ; 
Nouglit hut the sea-birds from the rock, 
With busy stir that fiutt'ring broke ; 
Sad signs, which in his mind portentous fears 
awaken. 

XXXI. 

Then eagerly on shore he went, 

His scouts abroad for tidings sent ; 

But to his own loud echo'd cry 

An Indian came with fearful eye. 

Who guess'd his questions' hurried sound, 

And pointed to a little mound, 

Not distant far. With eager haste 

The loosen'd mould aside was cast. 

Bodies, alas ! within tliat grave were found, 

Which had not long been laid to rest, 

Tho' so by changeful death defaced, 

Nor form, nor visage could be traced. — 

Tn Spanish garments dress'd. 

Back from each living Spaniard's cheek the 

blood 
Ran chill, as round their noble chief they 

stood, 
Who sternly spoke to check tlie rising tear. 
" Eight of my valiant men are buried here : 
"Where are the rest.'" the timid Indian 

shook 
In every limb, and slovrand faintly spoke. 
" Some are dead, some sick, some flown ; 
" The rest are up the country gone, 
" Far, far away." A heavy groan 
Utters the Chief; his blanch'd lips quiver; 
He knows tliat they are gone forever. 

XXXII. 
But here 'twere tedious and unmeet 
A dismal story to repeat, 
Which was from mild Cazique received. 
Their former friend, and half believed. 
Him, in his cabin far apart, 
Wounded they found, by Carib dart; 
Receiv'd, said he, from savage foe 
Spaniards defending. Then with accents low 
He spoke, and ruefully began to tell. 
What to those hapless" mariners befell. 
How that from lust of pleasure and of gold. 
And mutual strife and war on Caribs made. 
Their strength divided was, and burnt their 



XXXIII. 

Yet, spite of adverse fiUe, he in those climes 
Spain's infant ])ower establish'd ; after-times 
Have seen it flourish, and her sway main- 
tain 
In either world, o'er many a fair domain. 
But wayward was his irksome lot the while, 
Striving with malice, mutiny, and guile ; 
Yet vainly striving : that which most 
His generous bosom sought to shuu, 
Each wise and lib'ral purpose crost, 
Must now at Mammon's ruthless call be done. 
Upon their native soil, 
They who were wont in harmless play 
To frolic out the passing day, 
Must pine with hateful toil. 

XXXIV. 

Yea ; this he did against his better will ; 

For who may stern ambition serve, and still 

His nobler nature trust ? 

May on unshaken strength relie, 

Cast Fortune as she will her dye, 

And say " I will be just ? " 

XXXV. 

Envy mean, that in the dark 

Strikes surely at its noble mark. 

Against him rose with hatred fell. 

Which he could brave, but could not quell. 

Then he to Spain indignant went, 

And to his sov'reigns made complaint, 

With manly freedom, of their trust. 

Put, to his cost, in men unjust, 

And turbulent. They graciously 

His plaint and plea receiv'd; and hoisting 

high 
His famed and gallant flag upon tho main. 
He to his western world return'd again. 
Where he, the sea's unwearied, dauntless 

rover. 
Thro' many a gulph and straight, did first 

discover 
That continent, whose mighty reach 
From th' utmost frozen north doth stretch 
Ev'n to the frozen south ; a land 
Of surface fair and structure grand. 

XXXVI. 

There, thro' vast regions rivers pour. 

Whose mid-way skiff scarce sees the shore; 

Which, rolling on in lordly pride, 

Give to the main their ample tide ; 

And dauntless then, with current strong, 

Impetuous, roaring, bear along, 

And still their sep'rate honours keep, 

In bold contention with the mighty deep. 

XXXVII. 

There broad-based mountains from the sight 
Conceal in clouds their vasty height, 
Whose frozen peaks, a vision rare. 
Above the girdling clouds rear'd far in upper 

air. 
At times appear, and soothly seem 
To the far distant, up-cast eye. 



hold, . -. u , 

And their unhappy heads beneath tlie still , Like snowy watch-towers ot the sky 
earth laid. Like passing visions of a dream. 



523 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



XXXVIII. 

There forests grand of olden birtli, 
O'er-canopy the darken 'd earth, 
Whose trees, growth of unreckon'd time. 
Rear o'er whole regions far and wide 
A checker'd dome oJ" lofty pride 
Silent, solemn, and sublime. — 
A pillar'd lab'rinth, in whose trackless gloom, 
Unguided feet might stray till close of mortal 
doom. 

XXXIX. 
There grassy plains of verdant green 
Spread far beyond man's ken are seen, 
Whose darker bushy spots that lie 
Strew'd o'er the level vast, descry 
Admiring strangers, from the brow 
Of hill or upland steep, and show, 
Like a calm ocean's peaceful isles. 
When morning light thro' rising vapours 
smiles. 

XL. 
O'er this, his last — his proudest fame, 
He did assert his mission'd claim. 
Yet dark ambitious envy, more 
Incens'd and violent than before,] 
With crafty machinations gain'd 
His royal master's ear, who stain'd 
His princely faith, and gave it power 
To triumph, in a shameful hour. 
A mission'd gownsman o'er the sea 
Was sent his rights to supersede 
And all his noble schemes impede,— 
His tyrant, spy, and judge to be. 
With parchment scrolls and deeds he came 
To kindle fierce and wasteful flame. 
Columbus' firm and dauntless soul 
Submitted not to base controul. 
For who that iiath high deeds achieved. 
Whose mind hath mighty plans conceived, 
Can of learn'd ignorance and pride 
The petty vexing rule abide .'' 
The lion trampled by an ass ! — 
No ; this all-school'd forbearance would sur- 
pass. 
Insulted with a felon's chain, 
This noble man must cross the main, 
And answer his foul charge to cold, ungrate- 
ful Spain. 

XLI. 

By India's gentle race alone 

Was pity to his sulFrings shown. 

They on his parting wait. 

And looks of kindness on him cast. 

Or touch'd his mantle as he past, 

And mourn'd his alter'd state. 

" May the Great Spirit smooth the tide 

" With gentle gales, and be thy guide ! " 

And when his vessel wore from land, 

With meaning nods and gestures kind. 

He saw them still upon the strand 

Tossing their dark arms on the wind. 

He saw them like a helpless flock 

Who soon must bear the cruel shock 

Of savage wolves, yet reckless still, 

Feel but the pain of present ill. 

He saw the fate he could not now controul, 

And groan'd in bitter a'gony of soul. 



XLII. 

He trndo the narrow deck with pain. 
And oft, survey 'd his rankling chain. 
The sliip's brave captain grieved to see 
Base irons his noble pris'ner gall, 
And kindly sued to set him free ; 
But proudly spoke the lofty thrall, 
'• Until the King whom I have served, 
" Who thinks this recompense deserved, 
" Himself command th' unclasping stroke, 
" These gyved limbs will wear their yoke. 
" Yea, when my head lies in the dust, 
" These chains shall in my coffin rust. 
" Better than lesson'd saw, tho' rude, 
" As token, long preserv'd of black ingrati- 
tude ! " 

XLIII. 
Thus pent, his manly fortitude gave way 
To brooding passion's dark tumultuous sway. 
Dark was the gloom within, and darker grew 
Th' impending gloom without, as onward 

drew 
Th' embattled storm that, deep'ning on its 

way. 
With all its marshall'd host obscured the day. 
Volume o'er volume, roU'd tlie heavy clouds, 
And oft in dark dim masses, sinking slow, 
Hung in the nether air, like misty shrouds, 
V^eiling the sombre, silent deep below. 
Like eddying snow-flakes from a lowering 

sky, . 

Athwart the dismal gloom the frighten'd sea- 
fowl fly. 
Then from the solemn stillness round, 
Utters the storm its awful sound. 
It groans upon the distant waves ; 
O'er the mid-ocean wildly raves ; 
Recedes afar with dying straijj. 
That sadly thro' the troubled air 
Comes like the wailings of despair, 
And with redoubled strength returns again : 
Through shrouds and rigging, boards and 

mast, 
Wliistles, and howls, and roars th outrageous 

blast. 

XLIV. 
From its vast bed profound with heaving 

throws 
The mighty waste of welt'ring waters rose. 
O'er countless waves, now mounting, now 

deprest. 
The ridgy surges swell with foaming crest, 
Like Alpine barriers of some distant shore, 
Now seen, now lost amidst the dcafning roar ; 
While, higher still, on broad and sweepy 

base, 
Their growing bulk the mountain billows 

raise. 
Each far aloft, in lordly grandeur rides. 
With many a vassal wave rough'jung his 

furrow'd sides. 
Heav'd to its height, the dizzy skiff 
'Shoots like an eagle from his clift' 
Down to tho fearful gulf, and then 
On the swoln waters mounts again, — 
A fearful way ! a fearful state 
For vessel charged with living freight I 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMSUS. 



629 



XLV. 

Within, without, the tossing tempests rage : 

Tliis was, of all his earthly pilgrimage, 

The injur'd Hero's fellest, darkest hour. 

Yet swiftly pass'd its gloomy power ; 

For as the wild winds louder blew, 

His troubled breast the calmer grew; 

And, long before the mighty hand, 

That rules the ocean and the land. 

Had calm'd the sea, with pious rev'rence 

fiird, 
T'lie warring passions of his soul were still'd. 
Through softly parting clouds the blue sky 

peer'd. 
And heaven-ward turu'd his eye with better 

feelings cheer 'd. 
Meek are the wise, the great, the good ;— 
lie sighed, and thought of liim, who died on 

holy rood. 

XLVI. 

JVo more the angry tempest's sport, 

The vessel reach'd its destined port. 

A town of Christendom he greets, 

And treads again its well-known streets ; 

A sight of wonder, grief, and shame 

To those who on his landmg came, 

And on his state in silence gaz'd. 

'' This is the man whose dauntless soul" — 

So spoke their looks — " Spain's power hath 

rais'd 
'■' To hold o'er worlds her proud controul ! 
" His honour'd brows with laurel crown'd, 
" His hands with felon fetters bound ! " 

XLVII. 
And he before his Sovreign Dame 
And her stern Lord, indicrnant came ; 
And bold in conscious honour, broke 
The silence of his smother'd flame. 
In words that all his inward anguish spoke. 
The gentle Queen's more noble breast 
Its generous sjanpathy expresst ; 
And as his varied story show'd 
What wrongs from guileful malice fiow'd, 
Th' indignant eye and flushing cheek 
Did oft her mind's emotion speak. 
The sordid King, with brow severe. 
Could, all unmov'd, his pleadings hear; 
Save, that, in spite of royal pride. 
Which self-reproach can ill abide. 
His crimson 'd face did meanly show 
Of conscious shame th' unworthy glow. 
Baffled, disgraced, his enemies remain'd. 
And Tjase ambition for a time rostrain'd. 

XLVIH. 
With four small vessels, small supply 
I trow ! yet granted tardily, 
For such high service, he once more 
The western ocean to explore 
Directs his course. On many an isle 
He touch'd, where cheerly, for a while, 
His mariners their cares beguile 
Upon the busy shore. 
And there what wiles of barter- keen 
Spaniard and native pass between ; 
As feather'd crowns, whose colours change 
To every hue, with vizards strange, 

6G 



And gold and pearls are giv'n away, 
For beed or bell, or bauble gay ! 
Full oft the mutt'ring Indian eyes 
With conscious smile his wond'rous prize, 
Reneath the shady plantain seated, 
And thinks he hath the stranger cheated ; 
Or foots the ground like vaunting child. 
Snapping his thumbs with anticks wild. 

XLIX. 
But if, at length, tired of their guests, 
Consuming like those hateful pests, 
Locusts or ants , provisions stored 
For many days, they will afford 
No more, withholding fresh supplies, 
And strife and threat'ning clamours rise, — 
Columbus gentle craft pursues, 
And soon t.^ieir noisy wrath subdues. 
Thus speaks the chief, — " Refuse us aid 
" From stores which Heaven for all hath 

made ! 
" The moon, your mistress, will this night 
" From you withhold her blessed light, 
" Her ire to show ; take ye the risk." 
Then, as half-frighten'd, half in jest, 
They turn'd their faces to the east, 
From ocean rose her broaden'd disk ; 
Rut when the deep eclipse came on, 
By science sure to him foreknown, 
How cower'd each savage at his feet, 
Like spaniel couching to his lord. 
Awed by the whip or angry word. 
His pardon to entreat ! 
" Take all we have, thou heavenly man I 
" And let our mistress smile again ! " 

L. 

Or, should the ship, above, below, 
Be fill'd with crowds, who will not go ; 
Again, to spare more hurtful force, 
To harmless guile he has recourse. 
" Ho ! Gunner ! let these scramblers know 
'• The power v/e do not use ; " when, lo ! 
From cannon's mouth the silv'ry cloud 
Breaks forth, soft curling on the air. 
Thro' which appears the light'ning's glare, 
And bellowing roars the thunder loud. 
Quickly from bowsprit, shroud, or mast, 
Or vessel's side the Indians cast 
Their naked forms, the water dasliing 
O'er their dark heads, as stoutly lashing 
The briny waves with arms out-spread. 
They gain the shore with terror's speed. 

LI. 

TIius checker'd still with shade and sheen 

I'ass'd in the West his latter scene. 

As thro' the oak's toss'd branches pass 

Soft moon-beams, flickering on the grass : 

As on tile lake's dark surface pour 

Broad flashing drops of summer-shower : — 

As the rude cavern's sparry sides 

When past the miner's taper glides. 

So roam'd the Chief, and many a sea 

Fathom'd and search'd unweariedly, 

Hoping a western way to gain 

To eastern climes, — an effort vain ; 

For mighty thoughts, with error uncombin'd, 

'^\"ere never vet the meed of mortal mind. 



530 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



Lll. 

Atlenjrth, by wayward fortune cross'd, 
And ott-renew'd and irksome strife 
Of sordid men, — by tempests tost, 
And tir'd with turmoil of a wand'rer's life, 
He sail'd ao-ain for Europe's ancient shore, 
So will'd irigh Heav'n ! to cross the seas no 

more. 
Ilis anchor fix'd, his sails for everfurl'd, 
A toil-worn pilgrim in a weary world. 

LIII. 

And thus the Hero's sun went down. 
Closing his day of bright renown. 
Eight times thro' breeze and storm he past 
O'er surge and wave th' Atlantic vast ; 
And left on many an island fair 
foundations which the after care 
Of meaner chieftains shortly rear'd 
To seats of power, serv'd.envy'd, fear'd. 
No kingly conqueror, since time began 
Ihe long career of ages, hath to man 
A scope so ample given for trade's bold range. 
Or caus'd on earth's wide stage such rapid 
mighty change. 

LIV. 

He, on the bed of sickness laid, 
Saw, unappall'd, death's closing shade ; 
And there, in charity and love 
To man on earth and God above, ^ 
Meekly to heaven his soul resign'd, 
His body to the earth consign'd. 
'Tvvas in Valladolid he breatlied his last, 
And to a better, heavenly city past ; 
r>ut St. Dominga, in her sacred fane 
Doth his blest spotof rest and sculptur'd tomb 
contain. 

LV. 

There burghers, knights, advent'rers brave 
Stood round in fun'ral weeds bedight ; 
And bovv'd them to the closing grave, 
And wish'd hi.s soul good night. 

LVI. 

Now all the bold companions of iiis toil, 
Tenants of many a clime, who wont to come, 
(So fancy trows) when vex'd with worldly 

coil 
And linger sadly by his narrow home ; — 
Pvepentant enemies, and friends that grieve 
In self-upbraiding tenderness, and say, 
" Cold was the love he did from us receive,"— 
The fleeting restless spirits of a day, 
All to their dread account are pass'd away. 

LVII. 

Silence, solemn, awful, deep. 

Doth in that hall of death her empire keep ; 

Save when at times the hollow pavement, 

smote 
By solitary wand'rer's f lot, amain 
From lofty dome and arch and aisle remote 
A circlinir loud response receives again. 
Tlie stramrer starts to hear the growing sound. 
And sees the blazon'd tropliieu waving 

near ; — 



" Ha ! tread my feet so near that sacred 

ground ! " 
He stops and bows his head : — " Columbus 

resteth here ! " 
LVHl. 
Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his 

home 
He launch his vent'rous bark, will hither 

come, 
Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name 
Witli feelings keenly touch'd, — with heart of 

flame ; 
Till wrapp'd in fancy's wild delusive dream, 
Times past and long forgotten, present seem. 
To his charm'd ear, the east wind rising shrill, 
Seems thro' the Hero's shroud to whistle still. 
The clock's deep pendulum swinging, thro' 

the blast 
Sounds like the rocking of his lofty mast; 
While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous 

band, 
Mix'd with the accents of his high command. 
Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene. 
And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what 

he has been. 

LIX. 
O ! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
Whilst in that sound there is a charm 
The nerve to brace, the heart to warm, 
As, thinking of the mighty dead. 
The young, from slothful couch will start, 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread. 
Like them to act a noble part .' 

LX. 

! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 
All ages past, a blank v/ould be, 
Sunk in ol)livion's murky bed, — 
A desert bare, a shipless sea.' 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 

LXI. 
O 1 who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
When raem'ry of the mighty dead 
To eartli-worn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed, 
That point to immortality ? 

LXII. 
A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright, 
To guide us thro' the dreary night. 
Each hero shines, and lures, the soul 
To gain the distant happy goal. 
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave 
Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the 

brave. 
Can poorly think, beneath the mould'ring 

heap, 
That noble being shall forever sleep.' 
No ; saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly 

swells, — 
" Tho' his cored corse lies here, with God liis 

spirit dwells." 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



531 



NOTES. 

Note I. 
The magnet of a thousand eyes, 

That OH his form and features cast, 
His noble mien and simple gtdsc. — P. 522. 
Herrera's History of America, translated by 
Stevens, vol. i. p. 31. — " Columbus was tall 
of stature, long visaged, of a majestick as- 
pect, his nose hooked, his eyes grey, a com- 
plexion clear, somewhat ruddy ; his beard and 
hair, wlicn young, fair, though through many 
liardships they soon turned grey. He was 
witty, and well-spoken, and eloquent, mod- 
erately grave, affable to strangers, to his own 
family mild. His conversation was discreet, 
which gained him the affection of those he 
had to deal with ; and his presence attracted 
respect, having an air of authority and gran- 
deur; always temperate in eating and drink- 
ing, and modest in his dress." 
Note II. 
Had recognizd, in that bright hour. 
The disappointed suppliant of dull pmccr, 
Who had in Tain of kings and states desired. — 
r. 522. 

It is curious to see the many objections, 
which were made by prejudice and ignorance, 
to his proposal ; and also the means by which 
he became at length successful in his suit to 
the crown of Castile. To perceive what small 
considerations, and petty applications of in- 
dividuals, are sometimes concerned in promo- 
ting or preventing the greatest events, see the 
Appendix, No. II. 

Note III. 
The patient sage, who by his lamp' s faint light 
O'er chart and map fqyent the long silent ninht. 
P. 522. 

Herrera : — " He was very knowing in as- 
trology, expert in navigation, understood 
Latin, and made verses." 

Note IV. 
That Poicer Divine, ichorn storms obey, 
( IVhisper'd his heart) a leading star, 
Will guide him on his blessed tcay. — P. 522. 
Herrera : — " As to religion, he was very 
zealous and devout, often saying, ' I will do 
this in the name of the Trinity ; ' kept the 
fasts of the church very strictly ; often con- 
fessed and communicated ; said all the can- 
onical hours ; abhorred swearing and blasphe- 
my, had a peculiar devotion to our Lady and 
St. Francis; was very thankful to Almighty 
God for the mercies he received, zealous for 
God's honour, and very desirous of the con- 
version of the Indians. In other respects, he 
was a man of undaunted courage and high 
thought, fond of great enterprizes, patient, 
ready to forgive wrongs, and only desirous 
that offenders should be sensible of their 
faults ; unmoved in tlie many troubles and 
adversities that attended hnu ; ever relying on 
Divine Providence." 



Note V. 
With more redoubled danger must contend. 
Than storm or icace, — a fierce and angry crew. 
P. 523. 
Herrera, vol. i. p. 37. — " The men being all 
unacquainted with that voyage, and seeing 
no hopes of any comfort, nothing appearing 
but sky and water for so many days, all of 
them carefully observed every token they 
saw, being then further from land than any 
man had ever been. The lOtli of September, 
a sea-gull came to the Admiral's ship. * * 
* As the aforesaid tokens proved of no ef- 
fect, the men's fears increased, and they took 
occasion to mutter, gathering in parcels 
aboard the ships, saying that the Admiral, in 
a mad humour, had thought to make himself 
great at the expense of their lives; and though 
they had done their duty, and sailed further 
from land than ever any men had done be- 
fore, they ought not to contribute to their own 
destruction, still proceeding without any rea- 
son till their provisions failed them, which, 
though they were ever so sparing, would not 
suffice to carry them back, no more than the 
ships, that were already very crazy , so that no- 
body would think they had done amiss ; and 
that so many had opposed the Admiral's pro- 
ject, the more credit v/ould be given to them. 
Nay, there wanted not some who said, that, 
to put an end to all debates, the best way 
would be to ihrow him into the sea, and say 
he had unfortunately fallen in as he was at- 
tentively gazing on the stars : and since no- 
body would go about to inquire into the 
truth of it, that was the best means for them 
to return and save themselves. Thus the 
mutinous temper went on from day to day, 
and the evil designs of the men, which very 
much perplexed Columbus : but some times 
giving good words, and at other limes putting 
them in mind of the punishment they would 
incur, if they obstructed the voyage, he cured 
their indolence v.'ith fear ; and as a confirma- 
tion of the hopes he gave them of concluding 
their voyage successfully, he often put them 
in mind of the above-mentioned signs and to- 
kens, promising they would soon find a vast 
rich countr}', where they would all conclude 
their labour v/ell bestowed." 

Note VI. 
Descried afar the blessed sight. 
" It moves, it slowly moves, like ray 
" Of torch that guides some tcavdercr's rcay ! 
-P. 524. 

Herrero : — " But afterwards it was 

seen twice, and looked like a little candle 
raised up, and then taken down ; and Colum- 
bus did not question but it was a true light, 
and tliat they were near land, and so it proved, 
and it was of people passing from r.ne house 
to another." — (See Appendix, No. III.) 

Note VII. 
Columbus led them to the shore 
Which ship had never touched before, 



532 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



Jlnd there he knelt upon the strand, 

To thank the God of sea and land. — P. 524. 

Ilcrrern,, vol. i. p. 4(!. — " Wlu'ii day ap- 
peared, tliey perceived it was an island tilleen 
leagues in length, plain, much wooded, well 
watered, having- a lake of fresh water in the 
middle of it, well stored with people, who 
stood full of admiration on the shore imao-in- 
ing the ships 1o be some monsters, and with 
the utmost impatience to know what they 
were ,; and the Spaniards were no less eager 
to be on land. The Admiral went ashore in 
his boat, armed, and the royal colours flying, 
as did the captains Martin Monzo Pinzon and 
Vincent Yanez Pinzon, carrying the colours 
of their enierprize, being a green cross, with 
some crowns, and the names of their Catholic 
Majesties. Having all of them kissed the 
ground, and on their knees given thanks to 
God for the goodness he had shown them, 
tlie Admiral stood up, and gave that island 
the name of St. Salvador, which the natives 
call Cannaham, being one of those afterwards 
called the Lucayo Islands, 950 leagues from 
the Canaries, discovered after they had sailed 
thirty-three days. Then, with the proper so- 
lemnity of expressions, ho took possession of 
it in the name of their Catholic Majesties, for 
the crowns of Castile and Leon, testified by 
Roderick Escovedo, notary of the fleet, a 
great multitude of the natives looking on. 
The Spaniards immediately owned him for 
their Admiral and Viceroy, and swore obedi- 
ence to him as representing the King's person 
in that country, with all the joy and satisfac- 
tion that so great an event deserved, all of 
them begging Ins pardon for the trouble and 
uneasiness tiiey had given him, by inconstan- 
cy and faint-heartedness." 

Note VIII. 
Theij cijed those ivond'rous strangers o'er and 

o'er, — 
Those beings of the ocean and the air. — P. 525. 

It is often mentioned by Herrera, that the In- 
dians considered the Spaniards as beings come 
from heaven. It is mentioned, page 55., that 
in an island, where Columbus had sent his 
men to explore the interiour, " The prime 
men came out to meet them, led them by the 
arms, and lodged them in one of those new 
houses, causing them to sit down on seats 
made of one solid piece of wood in the shape 
of a beast with very short legs, the tail turned 
up, and the head before, with eyes and ears 
of gold ; and all the Indians sat about them 
on the ground, and one after another went to 
kiss their feet and hands, believing they came 
from heaven ;. and gave them boiled roots to 
eat, which tasted "like chesnuts," (probably 
potatoeSjJ and entreated them to stay there, 
or at least rest themselves for five or six days, 
because the Indians that went with them said 
many kind things of them. Abundance of 
women coming in to sec them, all the men 
went out, and they with the same admiration 



kissed their feet and hands, touching them as 
if they had been holy things, offering what 
they brought," &c. 

Note IX. 
There ni.nc-and-thirly chosen men he placed, 
Gave parting words of counsel and of cheer. — 
P. 525. 

Herrera, afler mentioning the building of 
the fort or rather tower of wood, says, — " He 
made choice of thirty-nine men to stay in the 
fort, such as were most willing, cheerful, and 
of good disposition ; the strongest and best 
able to endure fatigues of all that he had. 
* * Whom he furnished with biscuit 
and wine, and other provisions, for a year, 
leaving seeds to sow, and all the things he 
had brought to barter, being a great quantity, 
as also the great guns, and other arms, that 
were in the ship and boat that belonged to it." 
See Appendix, No. IV. for the speech which 
Columbus made to them on his departure. 

Note X. 
Upon a scroll, with hasty pen, 
His loond'rous tale he traced. — P. 525, 
Herrera, book ii. chap. 2. — " Tuesday, the 
12th of February, the sea began to swell with 
great and dangerous storms, and he drove 
most of the night without any sail : afterwards 
he put out a little sail. The waves broke and 
wrecked the ships. The next morning the 
wind slackened ; but on Wednesday night it 
rose again with dreadful waves, which hin- 
dered the ships' way, so that he could not 
shifl them. The Admiral kept under a main- 
top-sail, reefed only to bear up the ship again&t 
the waves ; but perceiving how great the dan- 
ger was, he let it run before the wind, there 
being no remedy. * « « The 

Admiral finding himself near death, to the 
end that some knowledge might come to their 
Cathohc Majesties of what he had done in 
their service, he writ as much as he could of 
what he had discovered on a skin of parch- 
ment ; and having wrapped it in a piece of 
ccer-cloth, he put it into a wooden cask, and 
cast it into the sea, all the men imagining it 
had been some piece of devotion, and pres- 
ently the wind slackened." 

Note XI. 
He, Inj his Great Preserver saved, 
Jlnchor*d again in Falos' part. — P. 525. 
Herrera; — " Wcdnesdaj', the VMi of 
March, he sailed with his caravel for Sevil. 
Thursday, before sun-rising, he found him- 
self oft' Cape St. Vincent, and Friday the 
15th, off Saltes, and at noon he passed over 
the bar, with the flood, into the port from 
whence he had first departed, on Friday the 
3d of August the year before, so that he spent 
six months and a half on the vo3-agc. * 
* * He landed at Palos, was received 
with a solemn procession and much rejoicing 
of the whole town, all admiring so great an 
action," &c. 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



533 



Note XII. 
With western treasures, borne in fair display 
To Barcelona s walls, in grand arraij. — P. 

Herrera : — " He carried with him green and 
red parrots, and other things to be admired, 
never before seen in Spain. He set out from 
Sevil, and tiie fame of this novelty being- 
spread abroad, the people flocked to the road 
to see the Indians and the Admiral." 

Note XHI. 
.^nd manly mind to hid thee soar 
Move a robber's lust of ore. 
Which hath a curse cntaiVd on all thy countless 
store. — P. 52G. 

The effects of the narrow policy of the 
Spanish government, regarding her dealings 
with Ameiica, and the short-sighted avarice 
of the many adventurers sent out to her col- 
onies there, are thus mentioned by Robert- 
son. 

Robertson, Hist, of America, book 3. — " Un- 
der the reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella, and 
Charles the Fifth , Spain was one of the most 
flourishing countries of Europe. Her manu- 
factures in wool, and flax, and silk, were so 
extensive as not only to furnish what was 
necessary for her own consumption, but to 
afford a surplus for exportation. When a 
market for them formerly unknown, and to 
which she alone had access, was opened in 
America, she had recourse to her domestic 
store, and found there an abundant supply. 
This new employment must naturally have 
added vivacity to the spirit of industry, nour- 
ished and invigorated by it, the manufactu- 
rers, the population, the wealth of Spain, 
might have gone on increasing in the same 
proportion with the growth of her colonies, 
&c. * * * But various causes 

prevented this. The same thing happens to 
nations as to individuals. The wealth which 
flows in gradually and with moderate increase, 
feeds and nourishes that activity which is 
friendly to commerce, and calls it forth into 
vigorous and well-conducted exertions; but 
when opulence pours in suddenly, and with 
too full a stream, it overturns all sober plans 
of industry, and brings along with it a taste 
for what is wild and extravagant, and daring 
in business or in action. Such was the great 
and sudden augmentation of power and reve- 
nue that the possession of America brought 
into Spain, and some symptoms of its perni- 
cious influence upon the political operations 
of that monarchy soon began to appear." 

(See this subject pursued further in the 
Appendix, No. III.) 

Note XIV. 
To Barcelona come, with honours meet 
Such glorious deeds to grace, his Sovereigns 
greet. — P. 520 

Herrera, vol. i. page 93. — " The Admiral 
arrived at Barcelona about the middle of 
April, where a solemn reception was made 



him, the whole court flocking out in such 
numbers, that the streets could not hold them, 
admiring to see the Admiral, the Indians, and 
the things he had brought, which were carried 
uncovered ; and the more to honour the Ad- 
miral, their Majesties ordered their royal 
throne to be placed in public, where they sat, 
with Prince John. The Admiral came in, at- 
tended by a multitude of gentlemen : when 
he came near, the King stood up and gave 
him his hand to kiss, bid him rise, ordered a 
chair to be brought and him to sit down in 
the royal presence, where he gave an account, 
m a very sedate and discreet manner, of the 
mercy God had shewn him in favour of their 
Highnesses, of his voyage and discoveries, 
and the hopes he had conceived of discovering 
greater countries, and shewed him the Indi- 
ans as they went in their ovv'n native places, 
and the other things he had brought. Their 
Majesties arose, and kneeling down with their 
hands lifted up and tears in tlieir eyes, re- 
turned thanks to God, and then the singers 
of the chapel began the Te Deum." 

Note XV. 
With kingly favour brightened , all 
His favour court, obey his call. 
.'It princely boards, above the rest. 
He took his place, admir'd, carcss'd. — P. 52G. 

Herrera: — " The king took the Admiral by 
his side when he went along the city of Bar- 
celona, and did him much honour other ways ; 
and therefore, all the grandees and other no- 
blemen honoured and invited him to dinner ; 
and the cardinal of Spain, Don Pedro Gon- 
zeles de Mendoza, a prince of much virtue and 
a noble spirit, was the first grandee, that, as 
they were going one day from the palace, 
carried the Admiral to dine with him, and 
seated him at the head of the table, and caused 
his meat to be served up covered and the es- 
say to be taken, and from that time forward 
he was served in that manner." 

Note XVI. 
He stood; then fired his signal shot. 
But amao'ring fire received not. — P. 527. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 112. — " The next day, 
Monday, all the fleet entered the port : the 
Admiral saw the port burnt down, whence he 
concluded that all the Christians were dead, 
which troubled him very mucli, and the more 
because no Indians appeared. The next day 
he went ashore very melancholy, finding no 
body to inquire of. Some things belonging 
to the Spaniards were found, the sight wlicre- 
of was grievous." 

Note XVII. 
Bodies alas ! icithin that grave were found, 
IVhich had not long been laid to rest. — P. 527. 

Herrera: — '• Wednesday, the 27th of No- 
vember, he came to anchor with his fleet at 
the mouth of the river Navedad. About mid- 
night a canoe came aboard to the Admiral ; 



631 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



the Indians cried " Jlmii-ante," that is, Ad- 
miral. * * * Ho inquired of tliom after 
liic Sjiaiiiards, they said some had died, and 
tiiat others were gone up the country with 
tlieir wives. The Admiral guessed that they 
were all dead, but was obliged not to take no- 
tice of it. * * * Near the fort they dis- 
covered seven or eight men buried and others 
nor liir off, whom they knew to be Christians 
l)y their being clad ; and it appeared that they 
had not been buried above a month. Whilst 
they were searching about, one of Gascan- 
nagarie's (the Cazique's) brothers came with 
some Indians who had learnt a little Spanish. 
* * * They said, that as soon as the Ad- 
miral was gone, they began to tall out among 
themselves and to disobey their commander, 
going about in an insolent manner to take 
what women and gold they pleased ; and that 
Peter Gutierrez and Escovedo (Spaniards) 
killed one Taconn; and that they two, witli 
nine others, .went away with the women they 
had taken, and the baggage, to the country 
of a lord whose name was Caunabo and was 
lord of the mines, who killed them all." 

Further on it is said, that when Columbus 
went to visit the Cazique, he told him the 
same story, and shov/ed his wounds from In- 
dian weapons, which he had received in de- 
fending the Spaniards. 

So many disasters, partly from misconduct, 
and partly from the difficulties they had to 
encounter from the climate, and depending 
on the old world for provisions, befell the first 
colonists which were settled in the West In- 
dies, that the places wliere they had once been 
were atT;erwards looked upon by the Spaniards 
v/ith a superstitious dread, as haunted by 
spectres and demons. 

(See Appendix, No. V. for a curious anec- 
dote in confirmation of this.) 

Note XVIIl. 
tluit ichich most 



His generous bosom sovght to shun 

Must now at Mammon s ruthless call he done. 

P. 527. 

It is sad to reflect that Columbus, always 
friendly and gentle to the natives, and most 
anxious to have them converted to the chris- 
tian religion, was yet compelled, in order to 
•satisfy the impatient cupidity of their Cath- 
olic Majesties, to make them work in the 
mines, which very soon caused great mortality 
amongst them. Gold must be sent to Spain ; 
otherwise the government of those countries 
would have been transferred from him to a set 
of rapacious and. profligate adventurers. 

Note XIX. 
Envy mean, that in the dark 
Strikes surely at its nolle mark, 
Against him rose, with hatred fell, 
Which he could brave, but could not quell. — 
P. 5-i7. 

From evil reports sent against the Admiral 
to Spain, one John Aguado was sent to the 



new world with credentials to this effect; 
" Gentlemen, Esquires, and others, who by 
our command are in the Indies, we send to 
you John Aguado, our groom, who will dis- 
course you in our name. We desire you to 
give entire credit to him. Madrid, April 9th. 
1495." This same groom, as might he ex- 
pected, did not fail to thwart Columbus in 
many aiiairs, and set a bad example to others ; 
he resolved therefore to return to Spain and 
clear himself of those slanders to their Majes- 
ties. 

Note XX. 
Impetuous, roaring, bear along, 
And, slill their separate honours keep, 
In bold contention loith the mighty deep — P. 527. 

It is scarcely necessaiyto give any author- 
ity for the immense width and power of those 
rivers ; but as this fact is implied in a sub- 
lime and descriptive simile in the ivritings of 
a modern poet, whose rich imagination is per- 
haps never betrayed into inaccuracj', I am 
tempted to insert it. 

The battle's rao-e 



Was like the strife which currents w?ge, 

When Orinoco in his pride 

Rolls to the main no tribute tide, 

But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 

A rival sea of roaring war ; 

While in ten thousand eddies driven, 

The billows fling their foam to heaven ; 

And the pale pilot seeks in vain 

Where rolls the river, wliere the main." — 

Rookby. 

Note XXI. 
A mission' d gotansman o'er the sea 
Was sent his rights to supersede. — P. 523. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 237. — " Pdention has 
been made of the discoveries made by the 
Spaniards in the years 1499 and 1500, and of 
what the Portuguese found by chance, as also 
that the Admiral's messengers arrived atthe 
court with an account of the insurrection of 
Francis Roldan,and the persons sent by him, 
v,'ho gave their complaints against the Admi- 
ral. Having heard both parties, their Majes- 
ties resolved to remove the Admiral from the 
government, under colour that he himself de- 
sired a judge should be sent over to inquire 
into the insolencies committed hy Roldanand 
his followers, and a lawyer that should take 
upon himself the administration of justice. 
* * * * Their Majesties made choice of 
Francis Bovadilla, coininendary of the order 
of Calatrava, a native of Medina del Campo, 
and gave him the title and commission of 
Examiner, under which he was to enter the 
island ; as also governor, to make use of and 
publish these in due time." (He was at first 
to conceal the extent of his commission.) 

See, on this subject, Appendix, No. VI. 

Note XXII. 
He trode the narroic deck with pain, 
And oft survey d his rankling chain. — P. 528'.- 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, 



535 



Hcrrera : — " In short, Bovadilla seized the 
Admiral and both his brothers,;Don Bartholo- 
mew and Don James, without even so much 
as seeing or speaking to them. They were 
all put into irons, and no person permitted to 
converse with tliera ; a most inhuman action, 
considering the dignity of the person, and the 
inestimable service he had done the crown of 
Spain. The Admiral afterwards kept his fet- 
ters, and ordered they should be buried with 
him, in testimony of the ingratitude of this 
world. Bovadilla resolved to send the Admi- 
ral into Spain, aboard the tv/o ships that had 
brought him over. Alonzo de Vallejo was 
appointed to command the two caravels, and 
ordered, as soon as he arrived at Cadiz, to de- 
liver the prisoners to the bishop, John Rodri- 
fiies de Fousico ; and it v."a3 reported tJiat 
ovadilla had put this afFronfupon its Admiral 
to please the bishop. It was never heard that 
Francis Roldan, or Don Fernando de Gue- 
vera, or any other of the mutineers who had 
committed so many outrages in that island, 
were punislied, or any proceedings made 
against them." 

Note XXIII. 
Until the Icing whom I have serxcd, 
Who thinks this recompense deserved, 
Himself command th' unclasjjijig stroke. — P. 
528. 

Herrera : — '-'Alonzo de Vallejo and the mas- 
ter of tlic caravel, Gordo, aboard which the 
Admiral was brought over, treated him and 
his brothers very well, and would have knock- 
ed off their fetters ; but he would not consent 
to it himself, till it was done by order of their 
Majesties." 

Note XXIV. 
With four small vessels, small suyphj 
I irow ! yet granted tardily 
For such high service. — P . 529. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 251. — '• Admiral Co- 
lumbusbeing come to court, after having made 
his complaints against Francis de Bovadillo, 
and what had been said as before ordered, 
never ceased soliciting to be restored to his 
full riglits and prerogatives, since he had per- 
formed all ho had promised, and had been so 
great a sufferer in the service of the crown, 
offering, thougli he was old and much broken, 
to make considerable discoveries, believing 
that he might find a streight or passage about 
that part where Nombre de Dies now stands. 
Their Majesties fed him with fair words and 
promises, till they could hear what account 
iS^icholas de Obando would send them about 
affairs of the island. Columbus demanded 
four ships and provisions for two years, which 
they granted him, with a promise that, if he 
died by the way, his son Don James siiould 
succeed him in all his rights and prerogatives. 
The Admiral set out from Granada to forward 
this business at Sevil and Cadiz, where he 
brought four vessels, the biggest not above 



seventy ton, and the least not under fifty ; 
with one hundred and fifty men, and all ne- 
cessaries." 

Note XXV. 
.^nd there ichat idles of barter keen 
Spaniard and native pass heticccn. — P. 529. 

Many accounts given by Herrera of the 
barter carried on between the Spaniards and 
Indians, are not unlike that which I have 
given in this passage of the legend. 

Note XXVI. 
The moon, Tjour mistress, icill this night 
From you icithhold her Messed light.— P. 529. 
Tliis circumstance is so well known that 
it were needless to mention it here, only as 
the account given of it by Herrera is rather 
curious, the reader may, perhaps, be amused 
by it. After telling how greatly the Span- 
iards were distressed for provisions, and how 
the Indians refused to supply them, he says, 
— " The Admiral knew there would he an 
eclipse of the moon within three days, where- 
upon he sent an Indian that spoke Spanish to 
call the Caziques and prime men of those parts 
to him. They being come a day before the 
eclipse, lie told them, that the Spaniards were 
Cliristians, servants of the Great God that 
dwells in heaven. Lord and Maker of all 
thino-s, and j-ewards the good and punishes 
the wicked," &c. " * " Wherefore they 
miglit that night observe, at the rising of the 
.moon, that she would appear cf a bloody hue, 
to denote the punishment God would inflict 
on them. "When he had made his speech, 
some of them went away in a fright, and 
others scoffed at it; but the eclipse begin- 
ning as soon as the moon was up, and increas- 
ing, the higher she was, it put them into such 
a "consternation, that tiiey hastened to the 
ships, o-rievously lamenting, and loaded with 
provisions ; entreating the Admiral to pray 
God that he would not be angry with them, 
and they would for the future bring all the 
provisions he should have occasion for. The 
Admiral answered, lie would offer up his 
prayers lO- God, and then, shutting himself 
up. waited till the eclipse was at its height, 
and ready to decrease, telling them he had 
prayed for them," &c. « « * " The In- 
dians perceiving the eclipse to go off, and en- 
tirely to cease, returned the Admiral many 
thanks," &c. 

Note XXVII. 
Jlgain, to spare more hurtful force, 
To harmless guile he has recourse. — P. 529. 
This'expedient of Columbus for clearing his 
ship, when the Indians had become too fond 
of being aboard, is told in an amusing manner 
by Herrera ; but I cannot at present discover 
the passage. 

Note XXVIII. 
Hoping a western icay to gain 
To eastern climes, an cjfort vain.—V. 529. 



j3G 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



This was one great object with Columbus, 
when ho first projected his great discoveries, 
and it made him so unwilhng when he came 
to tiie inoutli of one oi' the largo rivers of tiic 
continent, to believe it was a river, as a great 
continent there made against the probability 
of his discovering what he (lesired. Another 
notion of his, more fanciful, is mentioned bj 
Ilerrcra. 

" The Admiral was surprised at the immense 
cjuantity of fresh water before spoken of, and 
no less at the extraordinary coolness of the 
air so near the equinoctial ; and he particu- 
larly observed that the people thereabouts 
v/ere whites, their hair long and smooth, more 
subtle and ingenious than those he had seen 
before. These tilings made him conceit that 
tiie terrestrial Paradise might be in those 
jjarts, with other notions which make not to 
our purpose." 

Note XXIX. 

JV« kingly conqueror, since time began 
The long career of ages, hath to man 
.'? scope so ample given for trade's hold range 
Or caused on earth's luide stage such rapid, 
mighty change. — P. 530. 
Those mighty conquerors who have over- 
run the greatest extent of country, have, gen- 
erally speaking, produced only temporary 
change ; the kingdoms subdued by them fall- 
ing back again to tlieir old masters, or becom- 
ing, under the successors of the conqueror, 
nearly the same in government and manners 
v/hich they would have been, had he never 
existed. The discoveries of Columbus opened 
a boundless and lasting field for human exer- 
tion, which gave a new impulse to every mar- 
itime country in Europe. There is one con- 
queror indeed, Mahomet, the exertions of 
whose extraordinary life produced, unhappily, 
wide and lasting effects, but of a character so 
different from those produced by Columbus, 
that they can scarcely be considered as at va- 
riance with what is here asserted of the great 
navigator. The change which his discoveries 
occasioned in the new world must also be 
taken into the account ; and though this is a 
very melancholy consideration, as far as the 
V/est Indies are concerned, yet, that which 
took place on the Continentof America, though 
far a time at great expense of life, was good, 
and most thankfully to be acknowledged by 
every friend to humanity. It put an end to 
the most dismal and bloody superstition under 
the tyrannical government of jMexico : and 
wo can scarcely regret the overthrow of the 
milder religion and government of Peru, 
though we may lament the manner of it, and 
detest the cruelty and injustice of the con- 
querors ; for human flesh was not an unheard- 
of banquet in that country ; and, at the fune- 
rals of great people, many servants and de- 
pendents were killed or buried alive to become 
their servants still in another state of beine. 



See what Herrera says on this subject, Ap- 
pendix, No. IX. 

Robertson says, in speaking of the Mexi- 
cans, — " The aspect of superstition in Mexico 
was gloomy and atrocious ; its divinities were 
clothed with terror, and delighted in ven- 
geance ; they were exhibited to the people 
under detestable forms whicii created horror ; 
the figures of serpents, tygcrs, and of other 
destructive animals, decorated their temples. 
Fear was the only principle that inspired their 
votaries. Fasts, mortifications, and penances, 
all rigid and many of them excruciating to an 
extreme degree, were the means employed to 
appease the wrath of tlieir gods, and the Mex- 
icans never approached their altars, without 
sprinkling them with blood drawn from their 
own bodies. But of all offerings, human sac- 
rifices were the most acceptable. This reli- 
gious belief, mingling with the implacable 
spirit of vengeance, and adding new force to 
it, every captive taken in war was brought to 
the temple, was devoted as a victim to the 
deity, and sacrificed with rites no less solemn 
than cruel. The heart and the head were the 
portion consecrated to the gods ; the warrior, 
by whose prowess the prisoner had been seized, 
carried off the body to feast upon it with his 
friends. Under the impression of ideas so 
dreary and terrible, and accustomed daily to 
scenes of bloodslied, rendered awful by reli- 
gion, the heart of man must harden, and be 
steeled to every sentiment of humanity. The 
spirit of the Mexicans was accordingly un- 
feeling, and the genius of their religion so far 
counter balanced the influence of policy and 
arts, that notwithstanding their progress in 
both, their manners, instead of sollening, be- 
came more fierce. To what circumstances it 
was owing that superstition assumed such a 
dreadful form among the Mexicans, we have 
not sufficient knowledge of their history to 
determine. But its influence is visible, and 
produced an effect that is singular in the his- 
tory of the human species. The manners of 
the people of the new world, who had made 
the greatest progress in the arts of policy, were 
in several respects the most ferocious, and the 
barbarity of some of their customs exceeds 
even those of the savage state." 

Note XXX. 
'Twos in Valladolid he breathed his last. — P. 
530. 

Herrera, vol. i. page 311. — "When the 
Adeluntado Don Bartholomew Columbus was 
soliciting, as has been above said, the Admi- 
ral's distemper grew upon him, till having 
made the necessary dispositions, he departed 
this life with much piety at Valladolid on 
Ascension-day, being the 20th of May, 1506. 
His body was conveyed to the monastery of 
Carthusians at Sevil, and from thence to the 
city of Santo 13oniingo. in Hispaniola, where 
it lies in the chancel of the cathedral." 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



When, sapient, dauntless, strong, heroic man ! 
Our busy thoughts thy noble nature scan. 
Whose active mind, its hidden cell within, 
Frames that from which the mightiest works 

begin ; 
Whose secret thoughts are light to ages lend- 

Whose potent arm is right and life defending, 
For helpless thousands, all on one high soul 

depending : — 
We pause, delighted with the fair survey. 
And haply in our wistful musings say. 
What mate, to match this noble work of hea- 
ven. 
Hath the all-wise and mighty master given ? 
One gifted like himself, whose head devises 
High things, whose soul at sound of battle 

rises. 
Who with glav'd hand will thro' arm'd squad- 
rons ride, 
And, death confronting, combat by his side ; 
Will share with equal wisdom grave debate. 
And all the cares of chieftain, kingly state ? 
Aye, such, I trow, in female form hath been 
Of olden times, and may again be seen. 
When cares of empire or strong impulse swell 
The generous breast, and to high deeds impel ; 
For who can these as meaner times upbraid, 
Who think of Saragossa's valiant maid? 
But she of gentler nature, softer, dearer. 
Of daily life, the active, kindly cheerer ; 
With generous bosom, age, or childhood 

shielding. 
And in the storms of life, tho' mov'd, un- 
yielding ; 
Strength in her gentleness, hope in her sor- 
row, 
Whose darkest hours some ray of brightness 

borrow 
From better days to come, whose meek devo- 
tion 
Calms every wayward passion's wild com- 
motion ; 
In want and suffring, soothing, useful, 

sprightly, 
Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly, 
Till evil's self seems its stronghold betraying 
To the sweet witch'ry of such winsome play- 

inrr ; 
Bold from affection, if by nature fearful. 
With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, 

cheerful, — 
This is meet partner for the loftiest mind, 
With crown or helmet graced, — yea, this is 

womankind ! 
Come ye, whose grateful memory retains 
Dear recollection oi her tender pains 
To whom your oft-conn'd lesson, daily said, 
With kiss and cheering praises was repaid ; 

67 



To gain whoso smile, to shun whose mild 

rebuke. 
Your irksome task was learnt in silent nook, 
Tho' truant thoughts the while, your lot ex- 
changing 
With freer elves, were wood and meadow 

ranging ; — 
And ye, who best the faithful virtues known 
Of a link'd partner, tried in weal and woe, 
Like the slight willow, now aloft, now bend- 
ing, 
But, still unbroken, with the blast contending, 
Whose very look call'd virtuous vigour forth, 
Compelling you to match her noble worth ; — 
And ye, who in a sister's modest praise 
Feel manly pride, and think of other days. 
Pleased that the play-mate of your native 

home 
Hath in her prime an honour'd name be- 
come ; — 
And ye, who in a duteous child have known 
A daughter, help-mate, sister, blent in one, 
From whose dear hand which, to no hireling 

leaves 
Its task of love, your age sweet aid receives, 
Who reckless marks youth's waning faded 

hue. 
And thinks her bloom well spent, when spent 

for you ; — 
Come all, whose thoughts such dear remem- 
brance bear. 
And to my short and faithful lay give ear. 



I. 

Within a prison's hateful cell. 
Where, from the lofty window fell, 
Thro' grated bars, the sloping beam, 
Defiu'd, but faint, on couch of stone. 
There sat a pris'ner sad and lone, 
Like the dim tenant of a dismal dream. 
Deep in the shade, by low-arch'd door, 
With iron nails thick studded o'er. 
Whose threshold black is cross'd by those 
Who here their earthly being close. 
Or issue to the light again 
A scaffold with their blood to stain, — 
Moved something softly. Wistful ears 
Are quick of sense, and from his book 
The pris'ner rais'd his eyes with eager look, — 
" Is it a real form that thro' the gloom ap- 
pears .'' " 

II. 

It was indeed of flesh and blood, 
The form that quickly by him stood ; 
Of stature low, of figure liglit. 
In motion like some happy sprite ; 
Yet meaning eyes and varying check, 
Now red, now pale, seem'd to bespeak 



538 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



Beneatli the board, her store ; amazing 
Her jealous Frere, oil on her gazing. 
Then with liis voice and eager eye, 
She speaks in harndess mimicltry. 
" Mother ! was e'er the like beheld ? 
" Some wolf possesses our Griseld ; 
" She clears her dish, as I'm a sinner ! 
" Like plowman at his new-year's dinner." 

XX. 

And what each urchin, one by one, 
Had best in sport or lesson done, 
She fail'd not to repeat : 
Tho' sorry tales they might appear 
To a fastidious critic's ear, 
Tliey were to him most sweet. 

XXL 

But they must part till o'er the sky 
Night cast again her sable dye ; 
For all ! her term is almost over ! 
How fleetly hath it flown ! 
As fleetly as with tristed lover 
The stealthy hour is gone. 
And could there be in lovers' meeting 
More powerful chords to move the mind. 
Fond heart to heart responsive beating, 
Than in that tender hour, pure, pious love 
entwined ? 

XXH. 

Thus, night succeeding night, her love 
Did its unwearied nature prove. 
Tender and fearless; till, obscured by crimes. 
Again so darkly lower'd the changelul times, 
That her good sire, tho' shut from light of 

day. 
Might in that lowly den no longer stay. 

XXHL 

From Edinbrough town a courier came. 
And round him flock'd the castle's dame. 
Children and servants, young and old. 
" What news .•> what news ? thy visage sad 
" Betrays too plainly tidings bad." 
And so it did ; alas ! sad was the tale he told. 
" From the oppressor's deadly hate 
" Good Jerviswood has met his fate 
" Upon the lofty scaffold, where 
" He bore himself with dauntless air; 
'• Albeit, with mortal sickness spent, 
" Upon a woman's arm he leant. 
" From earth to heaven at yestero'en he 
went." . 

XXIV. 
In silence deep thelist'ners stood, 
An instant horrour chill'd their blood. 
The lady groan'd, and turn'd aside 
Her fears and troubled thoughts to hide. 
The children wept, then went to play : 
The servants cried " Awaladay ! " 
But oh : what inward sights, whichjborrow 
The.forms that are not, changing still, 
Fjike shadows on a broken rill. 
Were blended. withjour^ damsel's sorrow ! 
Those lips, those eyes so sweetly mild, 
That bless'd her as a humble child ; 



The block in sable, deadly trim. 

The kneeling form, the headsman grim, 

The sever'd head with life-blood streaming, — 

Were ever 'thwart her fancy gleaming. 

Her ilither, too, in perilous state, 

He may be seiz'd, and like his friend 

Upon the fatal scaflbld bend. 

May Heaven preserve him still from such a 

dreadful end ! 
And then she thought, if this must be. 
Who, honour'd sire, will wait on thee. 
And serve thy wants with decent pride, 
Like Baillie's kinswoman, subduing fear 
With fearless love, thy last sad scene to 

cheer, 
Ev'n on the scaffold standing by thy side ? 
A friend like his, dear father, thou shalthavo, 
To serve thee to the last, and linger round 

thy grave. 

XXV. 
Her father then, who narrowly 
With life escaped, was forced to fly 
His dangerous home, a home no more, 
And cross the sea. A friendly shore 
Receiv'd the fugitive, and there. 
Like prey broke from the spoiler's snare. 
To join her hapless lord, the dame 
With all her num'rous fam'ly came ; 
And found asylum, where th' opprest 
Of Scotland's patriot sons had rest. 
Like sea-fowl clust'ring in the rock 
To shun some rising tempest's shock. 

XXVI. 

But said I all the fam'ly ? no : 
Word incorrect! it was not so : 
For one, the youngest child, confin'd 
With fell disease, was left behind ; 
While certain things, as thus hy stealth 
They fled, regarding worldly wealth 
Of much import, were left undone ; 
And who will now that peril run. 
Again to visit Scotland's shore, 
From whence they did in fear depart. 
And to each parent's yearning heart 
The darling child restore ? 

. XXVII. 

And who did for affection's sake 
This task of peril undertake .' 
O ! who but she, whose bosom swell'd 
With feelings high, whose self-devotion 
FoUow'd each gen'rous, strong emotion, 
The 3foung, the sweet, the good, the bravQ 
Griseld. 

XXVIII. 

Yes ; she again cro.ss'd o'er the main, 
And things of moment left undone, 
Tho' o'er her head had scarcely run 
Her nineteenth year, no whit deluded 
By wily fraud, she there concluded, 
And bore the youngling to its own again. 

XXIX. 

But when she reach'd the Belgian strand. 
Hard was her lot. Fast fell the rain. 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



539 



And there lay many miles of land, 
A stranger's land, ere she might gain 
The nearest town. With hardship crost, 
Tlie wayward child its shoes had lost ; 
Their coin was spent, their garments light, 
And dark and dreary was the night. 
Then like some gypsie girl on desert moor, 
Her helpless charge upon her back she bore. 
Who then had guess'd that figure slight, 
So bending in such humble plight, 
Was one of proud and gentle race, 
Possessing all that well became 
Th' accomplish'd maid or high-born dame, 
Befitting princely hall or monarch's court to 

grace .'' 

XXX. 
Their minds from many racking cares re- 

liev'd. 
The gladsome parents to their arms rcceiv'd 
Her and the infant dear, caressing 
The twain by turns ; while many a blessing, 
Which sweetly all her toil repaid, 
Was shed upon their gen'rous maid : 
And tho'the inmates of a humble home, 
To which they had as wretched outlaws 

come, 
Tho' hard their alter'd lot might be. 
In crowded city pent. 
They lived with mind and body free 
In grateful, quiet content. 
XXXI. 
And well, with ready hand and heart. 
Each task of toilsome duty taking. 
Did one dear inmate play her part, 
Tlie last asleep, the earliest waking. 
Her hands each nightly couch prepared, 
And frugal meal on which they fared : 
Unfolding spread the servet white, 
And dcck'd the board with tankard bright. 
Thro' fretted hose and garment rent. 
Her tiny needle deflly went. 
Till hateful penury, so graced, 
Was scarcely in their dwelling traced. 
With rev'rence to the old she clung. 
With sweet aflection to the young. 
To her was crabbed lesson said, 
To her the sly petition made. 
To her was told each petty care ; 
By her was lisp'd the lardy prayer. 
What time the urchin, half undrest 
And half asleep, was put to rest. 

XXXII. 

There is a sight all hearts beguiling. — 
A youtliful mother to her infant smiling. 
Who, with spread arms and dancing feet. 
And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. 
Who doesliot love to see the grandame mild, 
Lesson with yearning looks the list'ning 

child ? 
But 't'ls a thing of saintlier nature, 
Amidst her friends of pigmy stature. 
To see the maid in youth's fair bloom, 
A guardian sister's charge assume, 
And, hke a touch of angel's bliss, 
ileccive from each its grateful kiss.— 



To see them, when their hour of love is past, 
Aside their grave demeanour cast. 
With her in mimicic war they wrestle > 
Beneath her twisted robe they nestle ; 
Upon her glowing cheek they revel. 
Low bended to their tiny level ; 
While oft, her lovely neck bestriding 
Crows some arch imp, like huntsman riding. 
This is a sight the coldest heart may feel ; — 
To make down rugged cheeks the kindly tear 
to steal. 

XXXIII. 
But wlien the toilsome sun was set, 
And ev'ning groups together met, 
(For other strangers shelter'd there 
Would seek with them to lighten care,) 
Her feet still in the dance mov'd lightest. 
Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest, 
Her braided locks were coil'd the neatest, 
Her carol song was thrill'd the sweetest ; 
And round the fire, in winter cold, 
No archer tale than hers was told. 

XXXIV. 
O ! spirits gay, and kindly heart ! 
Precious the blessings ye impart ! 
Tho' all unwittingly the while. 
Ye make the pining exile smile. 
And transient gladness charm his pain, 
Who ne'er shall see his home again. 
Ye make the stern misanthrope's brow 
With tint of passing kindness glow, 
And age spring from his elbow-chair 
The sport of lightsome glee to share. 
Thus did our joyous maid bestow 
Her beamy soul on want and woe ; 
While proud, poor men, in thread-bare suit, 
Frisk'd on the floor with lightsome foot, 
And from her magic circle chace 
The fiends that vex the human race. 

XXXV. 
And do not, gentle reader, chide, 
If I record her harmless pride. 
Who sacrificed the hours of sleep, 
Some show of better times to keep; 
That, tJio' as humble soldier dight, 
A stripling brother might more trimly stand 
With pointed cuff and collar white. 
Like one of gentle race mix'd with a home- 
lier band. 
And in that band of low degree 
Another youth of gentle blood 
Was found, who late had cross'd tho sea, 
The son of virtuous Jerviswood, 
Who did as common sentry wait 
Before a foreign prince's gate. 
And if his eye, ofl on the watch, 
One look of sweet Griseld might catch, 
It was to him no dull nor irksome state. 

XXXVI. 
And thus some happy years stole by ; 
Adversity with Virtue mated. 
Her state of \o\v obscurity, 
Set forth but as deep shadows, fated 
By Heaven's high will to make the ligiit 
Of future skies appear more briglit. 



540 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



And thus, at lowest ebb, man's thoughts are 

oft elated. 
He deems not that the very struggle 
Of active virtue, and the war 
She bravely holds with present ill, 
Sustain'd by hope, does by the skill 
Of some conceal'd and happy juggle, 
JJecomc itself the good which yet seems dis- 
tant far. 
So, when their lamp of fortune burn'd 
With brightest ray, our worthies turn'd, 
A recollection, fondly bent, 
On these, tlieir happiest years, in humble 
dwelling spent. 

XXXVII. 

At length the sky, so long with clouds o'er- 

cast, 
Unveil'd its copo of azure hue, 
And gave its fair expanse to view ; — 
The pelting storm of tyranny was past. 

XXXVIII. 

For he, the Prince of glorious memory. 
The Prince, who shall, as passing ages fly, 
Ue blest; whose wise, cnlighten'd, manl}' 

mind, 
Ev'n when but with a stripling's years com- 

bin'd, 
Had with unyielding courage oft contended 
For Europe's freedom, — for religion, blended 
With just, forbearing charity, and all 
To man most dear; — now, at the honour'd 

call 
Of Britain's patriot sons, the ocean plow'd 
With gallant fleet, encompassed by a crowd 
Of soldiers, statesmen, souls of proof, who 

vow'd 
Firm by his side to stand, let frood or ill be- 
fall. 
And with those worthies, 'twas a happy 

doom. 
Right fairly carn'd, embark'd. Sir Patrick 

Hume. 
Tlieir fleet, tho' long at sea, and tempest-tost, 
In happy hour at last arrived on England's 

coast. 

XXXIX. 

Meantime his Dame and our fair Maid 

Still on the coast of Holland stay'd, 

With anxious and misgiving minds, 

List'ning the sound of warring winds : 

The ocean rose with deaf ning roar, 

And beat upon the trembling shore. 

Whilst breakers dash'd their whit'ning spray 

O'er mound and dyke with angry bray, 

As if it would engulph again 

The land once rescued from its wild domain. 

XL. 

Oft on the beaeh our Damsel stood 
Midst groups of many a fearful Wight, 
Who viewed, like her, the billowy flood, 
Silent and siul, with visage shrunk and 

white. 
While bloated corse and splinter'd mast. 
And bale and cask on shore were cast, — 



A sad and rueful sight ! 
But when, at the Almighty will. 
The tempest ceas'd, and sea was still, 
From Britain's isle glad tidings came, 
Received with loud and long acclaim. 

XLI. 

But joy appears with shrouded head 

To tliose who sorrow o'er the dead ; 

For, struck with sore disease, while there 

They tarried pent in noisome air. 

The sister of her heart, whom she 

Had watch'd and tended lovingly. 

Like blighted branch whose blossoms fade. 

That day was in her cofVin laid. 

She heard tJie chimed bells loudly ringing. 

She heard the carol'd triumph singing. 

And clam'rous throng, and shouting boys. 

And thought how vain are human joys ! 

XLII. 

Howbeit, her grief at length gives way 
To happier thoughts, as dawns the day 
When her kind parent and herself depart, 
In royal Mary's gentle train, 
To join, ere long, the dearest to her heart, 
In their own native land again. 
They soon their own fair island hail'd. 
As on the rippling sea they sail'd. 
Ye well may guess their joyful cry. 
With up-raised hands and glist'ning eye, 
'When, rising from the ocean blue. 
Her chalky cliffs first met their view, 
Whose white verge on th' horizon rear'd, 
Like vi'all of noon-day clouds appcar'd. 

XLIII. 

These ye may guess, for well tlie show 

And outward signs of joy we know. 

But cease we on this theme to dwell. 

For pen or pencil cannot tell 

The thrill of keen delight from which they 

flow. 
Such moments of extatic pleasure 
Are fancy's fairest, brightest treasure. 
Gilding the scope of duller days 
With oft-recurring retrospect, 
With which right happily she plays. 
Ev'n as a moving mirror will reflect 
Its glancing rays on shady side 
Of holme or glen, when school-boys guide 
With skilful hands their miniick sun 
To heaven's bright sun opposed ; wc see 
Its borrow'd sheen on fallow dun. 
On meadow green, on rock and tree, 
On broomy steep, on rippling spring. 
On cottage thatch, and every thing. 

XLIV. 

And Britain's virtuous Queen admired 

Our gentle Maid, and in her train 

Of ladies will'd her to remain : 

What more could young ambition have 

desired ? 
But, like the blossom to the bough. 
Or wall-flower to the ruin's brow, 
Or tendril to the fost'ring stock, 
Or sea- weed on tho briny rock. 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



£41 



Or misletoe to sacred tree, 
Or daisy to the swarded lea, 
So truly to her own she clung ; — 
Nor cared for honours vain, from courtly fa- 
vour sprung. 

XLV. 
Nor would she in her native North, 
When woo'd by one of wealth and worth, 
The neighbour of her happy home, 
Tho' by her gentle parents press'd 
And flatter'd, courted and caress'd, 
A splended bride become. 
" I may not," said her gentle heart, 
" The very thought endure, 
" That those so kind should feel the smart 
"A daughter's wants might oft impart, 
'• For Jerviswood is poor. 
" But yet, tho' poor, why should I smotlier 
*' This dear regard ? he'll be my brother, 
" And thus thro' life we'll love each other, 
" What tho', as changing years flit by. 
" Grey grow my head, and dim his eye ! 
" We'll meekly bear our wayv.-ard fate, 
" And scorn their petty spite wlio rate, 
" With senseless gibes, the single state, 
" Till v/e are join'd, at last, in heavenly bliss 
on high." 

XLVI. 
But Heaven for them decreed a happier lot : 
The father of the virtuous youth. 
Who died devoted for the truth, 
Was not, when better times return'd, forgot : 
To the right heir was given his father's land, 
And W'ith his lady's love, he won her hand. 

XLVll. 
Their long-tried faith in honour plighted. 
They w'ere a pair by Heaven united, 
Whose wedded love, thro' lengthen'd years, 
The trace of early fondness wears. 
Her heart first gucss'd his doubtful choice. 
Her ear first caught his distant voice, 
And from afar, her wistful e^'e 
Would first his graceful form descry. 
Ev'n when he hied him forth to meet 
The open air in lawn or street. 
She to her casement went. 
And after him, with smile so sweet. 
Her look of blessing sent. 
The heart's affection, — secret thing ! 
Is like the cleft rock's ceaseless spring. 
Which free and independent flows 
Of summer rains or winter snows. 
The fox-glove from its side may fall 
The heath-bloom fade or moss-flower white, 
But still its runlet, bright tho' small. 
Will issue sweetly to the light. 

XLVHI. 
How long an honour'd and a happy pair. 
They held their seemly state in mansion fair, 
I will not here in chiming verses say, 
To tire my reader with a lengthen'd lay ; 
For tranquil bliss is as a summer day 
O'er broad Savanna shining ; fair it lies. 
And rich the trackless scene, but soon our eyes. 
In search of meaner things, turn heavily 
away. 



XLIX. 

But no new tics of wedded life. 

That bind the mother and tlie wife. 

Her tender, filial heart could change, 

Or from its earliest friends estrange. 

The child, by strong affection led. 

Who brav'd her terror of the dead 

To save an outlaw'd parent, still 

In age was subject to his will. 

She then was seen with matron air, 

A Dame of 3'ears, with count'nance fair, 

Tho' faded, sitting by his easy chair. 

A sight that might the heart's best feelings 

move ! 
Behold her seated at her task of love ! 
Books, papers, pencil, pen, and slate, 
And column'd scrolls of ancient date, 
Before her lie, on which she looks 
With searching glance, and gladly brooks 
An irksome task, that else might vex 
His temper, or his brain perplex ; 
While, haply, on the matted floor, 
Close nestling at her kirtled feet. 
Its lap enrich'd with cliildish store. 
Sits, hush'd and still, a grandchild sweet, 
Who looks at times with eye intent. 
Full ou its grandame's parent bent, 
Viewing his deeplj'-furrowed brow. 
And sunken lip and locks of snow. 
In serious wonderment. 
Well said that graceful sire, I ween ! 
Still thro' life's many a varied scene, 
Griseld our dear and helpful cJiild hath been. 

L. 

Tho' ever cheerfully possessing 
In its full zest the present blessing. 
Her grateful heart remembrance cheiisli'd 
Of all to former happiness allied, 
IN or in her fost'ring fancy perish'd 
Ev'n things inanimate that had supplied 
Means of enjoyment once. Maternal love. 
Active and warm, which nothing might re- 
strain, 
Led her once more, in years advanced, to rove 
To distant southern climes, and once an-ain 
Her footsteps press'd the Belgian shore, 
The town, the very street that was her home 
of yore. 

LI. 

Fondly that homely house she eyed, 
The door, the windows, every thing 
Which to her back-cast thoughts could bring 
The scenes of other days. — Then she applied 
To knocker bright her thrilling hand. 
And begg'd, as strangers in the land. 
Admittance from the household Dame, 
And thus preferr'd her gentle claim : 
" This house was once my happy home, 
" Its rooms, its stair, I fain would see ; 
"Its meanest nook is dear to me, 
" Let me and mine within its threshold 

come." 
But no ; this might not be .' 
Their feet might soil her polish'd floor, 
The Dame held fast the hostile door, 
A Belgian housewitt; she. 



642 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



"Fear not such harm ! we'll doff our shoes : 

" Do not our earnest suit refuse 1 

"We'll give thee thanks, we'll give thee 

gold ; 
" Do not kind coiirtrsy withhold ! " 
But still it iniglit not be ; 
The dull unpliant Dame refus'd her gentle 
plea. 

LII. 
With her and her good lord, who still 
Sweet union held of mated will. 
Years pass'd away with lightsome speed ; 
But ah ! thoir bands of bliss at lengtli were 

riven ; 
And she was cloth'd in widow's sable weed, 
Submitting to the will of Heaven. 
And tlien a prosp'rous race of children good 
And tender, round their noble mother stood. 
And she the while, cheer'd with their pious 

love, 
Waited her welcome summons from above. 

LIIl. 
But whatsoe'er the weal or woe 
That Heaven across her lot might throw. 
Full well her Christian spirit knew 
Its path of virtue, straight and true. 
When came the shock of evil times, menac- 
ing 
The peaceful land — when blood and lineage 

tracing 
As the sole claim to Britain's throne, in spite 
Of Britain's weal or will, Chiefs of the North, 
In warlike muster, led their clansmen forth, 
IJrave, faithful, strong and toughly nerved. 
Would tJiey a better cause had served ! 
For Stuart's dynasty to fight, 
Distress to many a family came, 
Who dreaded more th' approaciiing shame 
Of penury's ill-favour'd mien. 
Than ev'n the ])ang of liunger keen. 
How softly then her pity fiow'd ! 
How freely then her hand bestow'd ! 
SJie did not question their opinion 
Of party, kingship, or dominion : 
She would not ev'n their folly chide, 
But like tlie sun and showers of heaven, 
Which to tlie fal.se and true are given. 
Want and distress reliev'd on cither side. 

LIV. 
But soon, from fear of future change. 
The evil took a wider range. 
Tiie Northern farmers, spoil'd and bare, 
No more could rent or produce spare 
To the soil's lords. All were distress'd, 
And on our Noble Dame this evil sorely 

press'd. 
Her household numerous, her means with- 
held; 
Shall she her helpless servants now dismiss 
To rob or starve, in such a time as this. 
Or wrong to others do ? But notliing quell'd 
Her calm and upright mind. — " Go, summon 

here 
" Those who have serv'd me many a year." 
The summons went; each lowly name 
Full swiflly to her presence came. 



And thus she spoke : " Ye've served me 

long, 
" Pure, as I think, from fraud or wrong, 
" And now, my friendly neighbours, true 
" And simply 1 will deal with you. 
" Tlie times are shrew'd, my treasures spent, 
" My farms have ceas'd to yield me rent; 
" And it may chance that rent or grain 
" 1 never shall receive again. 
'• Tlie dainties which my table fed, 
" Will now be changed for daily bread, 
" Dealt sparel}', and for this I must 
" Be debtor to your patient trust, 
" If ye consent." — Swift thro' the hall. 
With eager haste, spoke one and all. 
" No, noble Dame 1 this must not be : 
" With heart as warm and hand as free, 
" Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride, 
" As when fair fortune graced your side. 
" The best of all our stores afford 
" Shall daily smoke upon thy board ; 
" And, should'st thou never clear the score, 
" Heaven for thy sake will bless our store." 
She bent her head with courtesy, 
The big tear swelling in her eye, 
And thank'd them all. Yet plain and spare, 
She order'd still her household fare, 
Till fortune's better dye was cast, 
And adverse times were past. 

LV. 

Good, tender, gen'rous, firm and sage. 

Thro' grief and gladness, shade and sheen, 

As fortune changed life's motley scene. 

Thus pass'd she on to rev'rend age. 

And when the heavenly summons came, 

Her spirit from its mortal frame 

And weight of mortal cares to free, 

It was a blessed sight to see. 

The parting saint her state of honour keep- 
ing 

In gifted dauntless faith, whilst round her, 
weeping, 

Her children's children mourn'd on bended 
knee. 

LVI. 

In London's fair imperial town 

She laid her earthly burthen down. 

In Mellerstain, her nortiiern home. 

Was rais'd for her a graven tomb 

Which gives to other days her modest, just 
renown. 



And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times, 
If such indeed will listen to my rhymes. 
What think ye of her simple, modest wortli, 
Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth .' 
How vain the thought ! as if ye stood in need 
For pattern ladies in dull books to read. 
Will she such antiquated virtues prize. 
Who with superb Signoras proudly vies. 
Trilling befor j the dear admiring crowd 
With out-stretch'd straining throat, bravuras 

loud. 
Her high-heav'd breast press'd hard, as if to 

I)oast 
The inward pain such mighty efforts cost: 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



543 



Or on the whitc-chalk'd floor, at midnight 

hour, 
Her head with many a flaunting full-blown 

flower 
And bartisan of braided locks enlarged. 
Her flinis}' gown with twenty flounces charg- 
ed, 
Wheels gaily round the room on pointed toe, 
Softly supported by some dandy beau : — 
Will she, forsooth ! or any belle of spirit, 
Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit? 
Or she, whose cultur'd, high-strain'd talents 

soar 
Thro' all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore 
With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten 
With all that e'er in classic page was written. 
And whilst her wit in critic task engao-es. 
The technic praise of all prais'd things out- 
rages ; 
Whose flnger, white and small, with ink-stain 

tipt, 
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be dipt; 
Who doth with proud pretence her claims 

advance 
To philosophic, honour 'd ignorance 
Of all, that, in divided occupation. 
Gives the base stamp of female degradation ; 
Protestsshe knows not colour, stripe nor shade. 
Nor of what stuff" her flowing robe is made. 
But wears, from petty, friv'lous fancies free. 
Whatever careful Betty may decree ; 
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill 
Leaves her in purfle, furbelow, or frill. 
No whit behind the very costliest fair 
That wooes with daily pains the public stare ; 
Who seems almost asham'd to be a woman. 
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man. 
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling. 
The plainest case in mazy words entang- 
ling : — 
Will she, I trow, or any kirtled sage. 
Admire the subject of my artless page? 
And yet there be of British fair, 1 know, 
W)io to this legend will some favour show 
From kindred sympathy ; whose life proceeds 
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds, 
And pass untainted thro' the earthly throng. 
Like souls tliat to some better world belong. 
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do. 
Still lib'ling present times, their number few. 
Yea, leagued for good thoy act, a virtuous 

band. 
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land. 
Who clothe the naked, and, each passing 

week. 
The wretched poor in their sad dwelling seek, 
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and 

bless 
The hands which princes might be proud to 

kiss ; — 
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame 
A generous helpful Maid, — a good and noble 
Dame. 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Is it a, woman or a child ? — P. 53G. 
She was at that time twelve years old, (see 
Lady Murray's Narrative.) — " When Mr. 
Baillie was first imprisoned. Sir Patrick sent 
his daughter Griseld to Edinburgh, with in- 
structions to obtain admission unsuspectedly 
into the prison, to deliver a letter to Mr. Bail- 
lie, and bring back from him what intelligence 
she could. Slie succeeded in this difficult 
enterprise, and having at this time met with 
Mr. Baillie's son, the intimac}^ and friendship 
was formed which was afterwards completed 
by their marriage." 

Note H. 
What hlessings 07i her yovlhful head 
Were bij the grateful patriot shed, 
For such he was. — P. 53U. 
(See the Appendix.) 

Note HI. 
Or in the grated prison's gloom, 
Dealt to them hy oppression's hateful hand, 

Mide their final doom. — P. 53G. 
It made the persecution of the Calvinists in 
those days more intolerable to them, when 
they considered that it was no motives of con- 
science which actuated their persecutors, who 
were the servile agents of a tyrant, assuming 
zeal in his service from corrupting and world- 
ly views ; and that had the king changed the 
religion every half-year, they would have been 
equally zealous in persecuting the opposers of 
the established church for the time being. 

Note IV. 
With them iclifi, in those times unblest, 
Mone had sure and fearless rest, 

The still, the envied dead. — P. 536. 

" Sir Patrick Hume concealed himself in a 
burying- vault in Polworlh church. — LadyM's. 
jXar. 

" The frequent examination oaths put to 
servants, in order to make discoveries, were 
so strict, they durst not run the risk of trust- 
ing any of them." — '' By the assistance of 
this man, a carpenter, who was the only per- 
son beside Lady Hume and Griseld who knew 
the place of his confinement, they got a bed 
and bed-clothes carried in the night to the 
burying-place, a vault under ground at Pol- 
worth church, a mile from the house, where 
he was concealed for a month, and had only 
for light an open slit at one end, through 
which nobody could see what was doing be- 
low. She (Lady Griseld) went" every night 
by herself to carry him victuals and drink, 
and stayed with Inni as long as she could to 
get home before day." 



su 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



Note V. 
The very hounds luent cowering hy, 
Or watdid afar with holding moan, 
For brutes will see wliat meets no human eye. 
— r. 537. 

Tliis is a very g-cneral belief, particularly 
regarding doga and horses. Wlien the dog 
cowers by his master's side, or stops short on 
liis way, and gives a stifled bark, it is some- 
thing far nior(^ terrible than the skulking thief 
or robber, which the belated peasant appre- 
hends to be near him. — " But have 3'ou never 
seen a ghost yourself.' " was once my eager 
question to the sexton of the parish, who had 
been telling me rnany frightful stories of ap- 
paritions. — " No," answered he very serious- 
ly ; " I never have, myself, but I am very 
sure that my dog has seen them." 

Note VI. 

ril be his active Broicnie sprite — P. 537. 

After tiie many ingenious works which have 
brought into notice of late years our Scottish 
superstitions, it would be foolish to acquaint 
the reader with the nature and properties of a 
Brownie ; I shall only say, that they are de- 
scribed by those who have been fortunate 
enough to get sight of them, as resembling a 
short square man, of a brown colour, and 
hairy. I once knew a woman, whose mother 
was the last person who sav/ a certain Brownie, 
long attached to a family of note in Lanrick- 
shire ; and, though she was so frightened at 
the sight, that she sioarfd (swooned) for fear, 
such was her description of him. One of 
tiiose beings is often supposed to be attached 
to particular families, and to be occasional 
night-servants for several generations. Mr. 
Hogg, in his ingenious tale of the Brownie of 
Bodsbeck, accounts very plausibly for the 
frequent traditions of those supernatural la- 
bourers in Scotland ; and in all countries 
where persecuted or outlawed men have sub- 
sisted on the secret bounty, or pilfered provi- 
sions of a neighbouring mansion, we may well 
suppose similar traditions to have existed ; 
for wretched and persecuted men will be more 
inclined gratefully to repay what necessity 
has obliged them to take or receive, than those 
who are more happily circumstanced. The 
Lubber Fiend is mentioned by Milton, and, 
I believe, other poets. Fortunately, perhaps, 
for the reader, want of learning prevents me 
from tracing the matter further. 

Note VII. 
She clears her dish, as I'm a sinner! 
Like plowman at his ncw-iiear' s dinner. — P. 
538. 

Lady M.'s Nar.— " There was also difficul- 
ty in getting food to carry him without the 
servants suspecting; the only way it was 
done was by stealing it oft' her plate at dinner 
into her lap : many a diverting story she has 
told ahout liiis and tilings of the like nature. 
Her father liked sljeei)"s-head, and while the 
children were eating the broth, she had con- 



veyed most of one into her lap ; when her 
brother Sandy (the late Lord jVIarchmont) 
had done, he looked up with astonishment 
and said, " Mother, will you look at Griseld ; 
while we have been eating our broth, she has 
eat up all the sheep's head ! " 

Note VIII. 
Like Baillics kinswoman, subduing fear. — P. 
53d. 

See the Appendix. And l^aing's Hist, 
book viii. page 139., where it is mentioned 
that his sister-in-law supported him to the 
scaffold. 

Note IX. 
Her father then, who narrowly 
IVith life escaped, was forced to fly. — P. 538. 

Lady M.'s Nar. — •• Sir P. Hume, on liearing 
of the death of Jerviswood, fled iirom this 
country, and took refuge in Holland; where 
his wile and her large family joined him. My 
aunt Julian, the youngest child, was so ill 
tliat she could not go with them. My mother 
returned from Holland by herself, to bring her 
over and ncgociate business. * * * They 
landed at the Brill. From that they set out 
at night, on foot, with a gentleman, who was 
of great use to them, that came over at the 
same time to take refuge in Holland. It was 
a cold wet night : my aunt, a girl not well 
able to walk, soon lost her shoes in the dirt; 
my mother took her upon her back, and car- 
ried her the rest of the way, the gentleman 
carrying the small luggage." 

Note X. 
Who then had gucss'd that figure slight. — P. 
539. 

Lady M.'s Nar. — '•' She was middle-sized, 
well made, and clever in her person ; very 
handsome, with a lii'e and sweetness in her 
eyes very uncommon, and great delicacy in 
ail her features." 

Note XL 
J]nd icell, icith ready hand and heart, 
Each task of toilsome duty taking. — P. 539. 

Lady M.'s Nar. — '• All the time they were 
there (Holland,) there was not a week my 
mother did not sit up two nights to do the 
business that was necessary. She went to 
the market, and the mill to have the corn 
ground, as was the way with good managers 
there ; dressed the linen, cleaned the house, 
made ready dinner, mended the children's 
stockings, and other clothes, made what she 
could for them, and in short did every thing." 

Note XII. 
Her braided, locks were coil'd the neatest, 
Her coral song icas trill'd the sicectest, 
dnd round the fire, in icinter cold, 
JS'o archer tale than hers icas told. — P. 539. 

She was very neat in her dress, sung well, 
and had a great deal of humour in telling a 
story, being of a very checrlul disposition. 
(See Lady M.'s Nar.) 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



54S 



Note XIII. 
For other strangers, shelter'd there, 
Would seek inilh them to lighten care. — P. 539. 
The house of Sir Patrick Hume was much 
frequented by his countrymen, many of whom 
had taken refujre in Holland under similar cir- 
cumstances with himself; and those meetings 
were enlivened with dancing and music, and 
all innocent amusements which cheerful pov- 
erty may enjoy. 

Note XIV. 
J? stripling brother might more trimly stand, 
With pointed cuff and collar white, 
Like one of gentle race viixed with a homelier 
hand.—?. 539. 
Lady M. says, in her narrative, that her el- 
der brother, for a time, was a private in the 
Prince of Orange's guards, as was also young 
Jerviswood, when she took such pains to have 
his cuffs and cravat pointed after the fashion 
of tiiose days. 

Note XV. 

our icoithies turn'd, 

A recollection, fondly lent 
On these, their happiest years, in humble dwell- 
ing spent. — P. 540. 
Lady M. records, that her mother talked 
of those years as the happiest part of her life. 

Note XVI. 
Still on the coast of Holland stayed, 
With anxious and misgiving minds, 
Listening the sound of warring winds. — P. 540. 
Lady M.'s Nar. — " When the long-expect- 
ed happiness of the Prince's going to England 
took place, her father and brother, and my 
father, went with him. They (Griseld and 
lady Hume) soon heard the melancholy re- 
port of the whole fleet being cast away or 
dispersed, and immediately came from Utrecht 
to Herverl-Sluu, to get what information they 
could. The place was crowded by people 
from all quarters, come for the same purpose ; 
so that her mother and she and her sister were 
forced to lie in the boat they came in, and for 
three days continually to see come floating 
in, beds, chests, horses, «fcc. that had been 
thrown overboard in their distress." 

Note XVII. 

But joy appears icith shrouded head 

To those who sorrow o'er the dead. — P. 540. 

Lady M.'s Nar. — " Yet when that happy 
news (the Prince's safe arrival in England) 
came, it was no more to my mother than any 
occurrence she had not the least concern in, 
for that very day her sister Christian died of 
a sore throat, which was so sore an aflliction 
to both her and her mother, that they had no 
feeling for any thing else." 

Note XVIII. 
Britain's virtuous Queen admired 
Our gentle maid, and in her train 
Of ladies will'd her to remain. — P. 540. 



Lady M.'s Nar. — " My grandmother and 
she came over with the Princess. She was 
offered to be made one of her maids of honour, 
and was well qualified for it. * * * 
She declined being maid of honour, and chose 
going home with the rest of her family." 

Note' XIX. 
But, like the blossom to the bough, 
Or loall-flower to the ruin's brow. — P. 540. 

I fear I have not here nor any where done 
justice to the sweetness and modesty of her 
character ; for her daughter says of her, " She 
greatly disliked flattery. I have often seen 
lier put out of countenance at speeches made 
to her, and had not a word to say. « « * 
And this was joined with a modesty which 
was singular. To her last, she had the bash- 
fulness of a girl, and was as easily put out of 
countenance.'' 

Note' XX. 
But yet, though poor, why should I smother 
This dear regard? he'll be my brother. — P. 541. 

Knowing that her parents objected to her 
union with Jerviswood, on account of his cir- 
cumstances, she resolved never to marry. — 
(See Lady M.'s Nar.) 

Note XXI. 
She to her casement went, 
Jind after him, tvith smile so sweet, 
Her look of blessing sent. — P. 541. 

Lady M. in speaking of her affection for 
her husband, says, — '■ To the last of his life 
she felt the same tender love and affection for 
him, and the same desire to please him in the 
smallest trifle, that she hgjl at their first ac- 
quaintance. Indeed, her principal pleasure 
was to watch and attend to every thing that 
could give him pleasure or make him easy. 
He never went abroad but she went to the 
window to look after him." 

Note XXII. 
But no neio tics of icedded life, 
That bind the mother and the icife. 
Her tender, filial heart could change. — P. 541. 

When her father became very old, so that 
business became a trouble to him, we find it 
recorded by lady M., that Lady Griseld went 
to him once every year, or as often as was 
necessary, and looked over all his papers and 
accounts, which were often long and intricate. 
Very unlike too many married women, who, 
in taking upon them the duties of a wife and 
mother, suffer these to absorb every otlier ; 
and visit their father's house seldom, and as 
a stranger who has nothing to do there but to 
be served and wailed upon. If misfortune or 
disease come upon their parents, it is the sin- 
o-le daughters only who seem to be concerned 
in all this.— She who is a neglectful daughter, 
is an attentive wife and mother from a mean 



54C 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 



Note XXIII. 
Well said that grateful sire, I ween ! 
Grisc.ld our dear and helpful child hath been. — 
P. 541. 
This was the commendation which her 
motlier gave her, upon her death-bed. 

Note XXIV. 
Fondly that hornchj house she eyed, 
The door, theivindoics, every thing. — P. 541. 

Lady M.'s Nar. — " When she came to 
Utrecht, the place of her former abode, she liad 
the greatest pleasure in showing us every cor- 
ner of the town, which seemed fresh in her 
menaory, particularly the house slie had lived 
in, which she had a great desire to see; but 
when she came there, they would not let her 
in, by no argument, either of words or money, 
for no reason but for fear of dirtying it ; she 
offered to put offher shoes, butcould not pre- 
vail, and she came away much mortified at 
her disappointment." 

Note XXV. 
Hoio softly then her pity flowed ! 
Hoto freely then her hand hcstoiccd! — P. 542. 

1 have here fallen short of the liberality re- 
corded by Lady Murray ; for she says, that 
Lady Griseld gave to those distressed people 
of both parties as long as she had any money 
to give, and when that was exhausted, bor- 
rowed from others to relieve them. I have 
no reason to question this statement, and 
there were, no doubt, circumstances which 
permitted her to do so, consistently witli the 
justice and good sense of; her character; but 
as those circumstances are not mentioned, and 
if they were, woi^ld probably make very un- 
toward matter for a metrical story, I have cho- 
sen rather to omit the full extent of her be- 
neficence, than injure a- young reader with 
giving him fantastical notions of generosity. 
Too many of our modern comedies have been, 
with the best intention in their authors, hurt- 
ful in this respect. But less, I believe, in 
making (as might be supposed) either young 
or old very imprudently or heedlessly liberal, 
than in teaching them to despise a reasonable 
liberality, as beneath a sentimental gentleman 
or lady ; and, therefore, to omit the virtue al- 
together, unless it can be exercised with be- 
coming occasions ; which occasions, some 
how or other, never occur, or if they do, prove 
of so exhausting a nature that many reason- 
able and moderate calls on generosity pass 
afterwards unregarded. 

Note XXVI. 
But soon, from fearvf future change, 
The evil took a loider range. — P. 542. 
Lady M., after mentioning her distress at 
the time of the rebellion in the year 1725, and 
her charity for those who differed with lier 
in opinion, and liberality to all in distress, 
while it was in her power, adds : " When the 
situation of things made it impossible for her 



to get any money from Scotland, and what 
she had was at an end, she sent for her but- 
cher, and baker, and brewer, »tc. whom she reg- 
ularly paid every month, told them she could 
not do so, and perhaps never might be able to 
pay them at all, of which she thought it just 
to give them warning, that they might choose 
whether they would continue to serve her : 
they all said she should be in no pain, but 
take fiom them whatever she had occasion 
for, because they were sure, if ever slie was 
able to pay them, she would ; and if she was 
not, she v/as very welcome, which was the 
least they owed for such long punctual pay- 
ments as they had got from her." 

Note XXVII. 
Whilst round her, weeping, 
Her children's children movrn'd on bended 
knce.—V. 542. 
The friendly, affectionate terms on which 
she lived with her numerous offspring is often 
noticed bj' Lady M. ; so that they had all 
good cause to lament her loss. 

Note XXVIII. 
Was raised for her a graven tomb 
Which gives to other days her modest, just rc- 
noicn. — P. 542. 
The inscription to her memory is written 
by Judge Burnet, and says, that, — 

" While an iiif.int. 

At the hazard of her own, she preserved her father's hfe, 

AVho, under the persecution of ambitious power, 

Sought refuge in the clo.e ronfincinenl of a touib. 

A\ here he was nightly supplied with necessaries conveyed 

ny her. 

With a caution above her years, 

A courage above her sex, 

A real instauce of (he so much celebrated Roman charity." 

Note XXIX. 
Yea, leagued for ' good, there is a virtuous 

band. 
The rich, the young, the loveliest of the land. — 

P. 543. 
It is a very pleasing trait of the present 
times, that our women, particularly young 
women of the higher classes of society, are so 
actively benevolent. Many of them, associa- 
ted with those of more experienced age, are 
to be found, who, like Sisters of Mercy, vis- 
it the abodes of want and miser}' in our great 
metropolis ; dispensing their bounty, not 
thoughtlessly, to get rid ofa painful sympathy, 
as casual charity is frequently bestowed, but 
with judicious and careful consideration. 
They join the manners of the world to the 
considerate methodical benevolence of the So- 
ciety of Quakers ; and how far, by example, 
we inay be indebted to that society for this 
useful manner of doing good, it would not 
here be proper to inquire. Tliere is an hon- 
oured name — a most distinguished woman be- 
longing to that respectable sect, who may 
hereafter, in the hands of a better poet, be- 
come the subject of a lay more generally in- 
teresting, though less romantic, than that of 
the Lady Griseld Baillie. 



APPENDIX. 



CHR,ISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 

No. I. 
Herrera's Hist. vol. i. page 24. — " Don 
Christopher Columbus, whom the Spaniards, 
for the more easy pronunciation, called Colon, 
was born in the city of Genoa, in which par- 
ticular, as also that his father's name was 
Dominick, all who write or treat of him do 
agree, and he himself owns it ; and as for his 
original, some say it was trom Plasencia, and 
others from Cucureo, on the coast near the 
same city : but some say he was descended 
from the lords of the castlo of Cucaro, which 
is that part of Italy formerly called Lyguria, 
now the dukedom of JMontserrat, so near Al- 
exandria de la PoUa, that the bells are heard 
from the one to the other; but which was the 
most certain descent, was left to be decided 
by the supreme council of the Indies. It ap- 
])ears that tlie Emperor Otlio the Second, in 
the year 940, confirmed to the Earls Peter, 
John, and Alexander Columbus, the lands 
they held as fiefs, and in fee simple, within 
the liberties of the cities of Acqui, Savonna, 
Aste, Monfcrrat, Turin, Vercelli, Parma^ Cre- 
mona, and Bergano, and all their other pos- 
sessions in Italy ; and it further appears by 
other deeds, that the Columbi of Cucaro, Cu- 
cureo, and Plasencia, were the same ; and that 
the aforesaid Emperor, tlie same year, 940, 
granted to the said brothers of the house of 
Columbus, Peter, John, and Alexander, the 
castles of Cucaro, Conzano, Rosignano, and 
others, and the fourth part of Bistagno, all 
which belonged to the empire, which is a tes- 
timony of the antiquity of this house. 

No. 11. 
Herrera, vol. i. page 24. — " He came into 
Spain, and more particularly into Portugal, 
when he was very young. — And being very 
positive in the notion he had long con- 
ceived, that there were new lands, undiscov- 
ered, he resolved to make the same public; 
but being sensible that such an enterprize was 
only fit for great Princes, he first proposed it 
to the republic of Genoa, which looked upon 
it as a dream ; and after that to King John of 
Portugal, who, though he gave him a favour- 
able hearing, being then taken up with the 
discovery of the coast of Africk on the ocean, 
did not think fit to undertake so many things 
at once, and yet referred it to Doctor Calza- 
dillo, called Don Diego Ortiz, Bishop of Ceu- 
ta, who was a Castilian, born at Calzadillo, 
and to Master Rodrigo and Jusepe, Jewish 
physicians, to whom he gave credit in affairs 
of discoveries and cosmography ; and, though 
they affirmed they looked upon it as a fabu- 



lous notion, having heard Don Christopher 
Columbus, and understood the motives he had, 
and what course he designed to steer, not al- 
together rejecting the project, they advised 
him to send a caravel, upon pretence of sail- 
ing to Cabo Verde, to endeavour to find by 
that course Don Christopher proposed to dis- 
cover the secret; but that vessel, having been 
many days out at sea, and in great storms, re- 
turned without finding any thing, making a 
jest of Columbus's project, who was not ig- 
norant of this attempt. 

" This action very much troubled Colum- 
bus : and he took such an aversion to Portu- 
gal, that, being rid of his wife, who was dead, 
he resolved to go away into Spain; and, for 
fear of being served as he had been in Portu- 
gal, he was resolved to send his brother, Don 
Bartholomew Columbus, into England, where 
Henry the Seventh then reigned. He was a 
long time on his way, having been taken by 
pirates, and staid there to be acquainted with 
tlie humours of the court, and the method of 
managing affairs. Don Christopher, design- 
ing to propose that aflair to their Catholic 
Majesties, Ferdinand and Elizabeth, (Herrera 
here calls this queen Elizabeth.) in the year 
1484, privately made his waj^ to Portugal by 
sea, toward Andaluzia, being satisfied that the 
king was convinced that his project was well- 
grounded, and that those who went in the 
caravel had not performed what he expected 
of tliern, and therefore designed to attempt 
that affair again. He arrived at Palos de 
Moquer, v.'hence he went away to the court, 
which was then at Cordova. '^ * « f^g 
began to propose his affair at Cordova, where 
the most encouragement be found was in 
Alonzo de Quintanilla, controller of the rev- 
enue of Castile, a very discreet man, and 
who delighted in great undertaking-s ; who, 
looking upon Columbus as a man of worth, 
gave him maintenance, without which he could 
not have subsisted so long in that tedious suit, 
which was so home pressed, that their Catho- 
lic IMajesties, giving some attention to the 
affair, referred it to Father Ferdinand de Tal- 
avery, of the order of St. Jerome, Prior of 
Prado, and the Queen's confessor, who was 
afterwards the first Bishop of Granada. He 
held an assembly of cosmographers, who de- 
bated about it ; but there being few of that 
profession in Castile, and those none of the 
best in the world, and, besides, Columbus 
would not altogether explain himself, lest he 
should be served as he had been in Portugal, 
they came to a resolution nothing answerable 
to what he had expected ; some alleging that 
since, during so many ages as there were from 
the creation of the world, men so well versed 



548 



APPENDIX. 



in marine affairs had known noUiing of those 
countries Columbus persuaded them must be 
found, it was not to l)e iuiaoined tli;it lie could 
know more than all of them ; others, adher- 
ing more to cosmoo-raphical reasons, urged, 
that the world was so large that there would 
he no coming to the utmost extent of the east 
in three years' sail, whither Columbus said he 
intended his voyage: and, in confirmation 
tiiercof, they alleged that Seneca, by way of 
dispute, said, that many discreet men did not 
agree upon the question, whether the ocean 
were intinile, and doubted whether it could 
be sailed, and supposing it to be navigable, 
whether there was any country inhabited on 
the otlier side, and whether it was possible to 
go to it they added, that no part of this in- 
terior sphere was inhabited, except only a 
small compass which was left in our hemis- 
phere above the water, and that all the rest 
was sea ; and that notwithstanding it were so, 
that it were possible to arrive at tlie extreme 
part of the East, it would be also granted, that 
from Spain they go to the extreme part of the 
West." 

Herrera, in the following chapter to the 
above, says, " There were also others who 
affirmed, that if Columbus should sail away 
directly westward, he would not be able to re- 
turn to Spain, by reason of the roundness of 
the globe ; because, whosoever should go be- 
yond the hemisphere known by Ptolemy, 
would fall down so low, that it would be im- 
possible ever to return, by reason it would be 
like climbing up a hill ; and though Colum- 
bus 'fully answered these arguments, they 
could not comprehend him ; for which reason 
those of the assembly judged the enterprize to 
be vain and impracticable, and that it was not 
becoming the grandeur of such mighty Princes 
to proceed upon so imperfect an account. 

"After much delay, tlieir Catholic Majes- 
ties ordered this answer to be given to Colum- 
bus, that being engaged in several wars, par- 
ticularly in the conquest of Granada, they 
could not enter upon fresh expenses, but when 
that was over, they would cause further in- 
quiry to be made into his proposals, and so 
dismissed him. * * Having received the 
answer above, Columbus went away to Sevil, 
very melancholy and discontented, after hav- 
ing been five years at court to no effect. He 
caused the affair to be proposed to the Duke 
de Medina Sidonia, and, some say, to the 
Duke de Medina Celi at the same time ; and 
they also rejecting him, he writ to the King of 
France, designing to go over to England to 
look for his brother, of whom he had heard 
nothing for a long time, in case the French 
would not employ him. With this design he 
went to the monastery for his son Don Diego, 
in order to leave him at Cordova ; and com- 
municating his design to Father John Perez 
de Marchena, God having reserved this dis- 
covery for the crown of Castile and Leon, 
and Columbus going unwillingly to treat with 
other princes, because, by peason of the long 



time he had lived in Spain he looked upon 
himself as a Spaniard, he put offhis journey 
at tlu; request of Father John Periz, who, to 
be the better informed of the grounds Colum- 
bus went upon, sent for Garci Hernandez, a 
physician, and they three conferred together 
upon what Columbus proposed, which gave 
Garci Hernandez, as being a philosopher, 
much satisfaction. Whereupon feather John 
Perez, who was known to the Queen, as hav- 
ing confessed her sometimes, writ to her, and 
she ordered him to come to court, which was 
then in the town of Santa Fe, at the siege of 
Granada, and to leave Columbus at Palos, 
giving him hopes of success in his business. 
Father John Perez having been with the 
Queen, she ordered twenty thousand marave- 
dies in florins to be sent to Columbus by James 
Prieto, an inhabitant of Palos, for him to goto 
court ; where he being come, the affair began 
to be canvassed again. But the prior of Prado, 
and others who followed them, being of a con- 
trary opinion, and Columbus demanding very 
high terms, and, among the rest, to have the 
title of Admiral and Viceroy, they thought he 
demanded too nmch, if the enterprize suc- 
ceeded, and looked upon it as a discredit, if it 
did not; whereupon the treaty entirely ceas- 
ed, and Columbus resolved to go away to 
Cordova, in order to proceed from thence to 
France, being positive not to go to Portugal 
upon any account. 

" AloRZO de Quintanilla, and Lewis de San- 
tangel, a clerk of the revenue of the crown of 
Arragon, were much concerned to think that 
this enterprize should be disappointed. Now, 
at the request of Father John Perez, and 
Alonzo de Quintanilla, the Cardinal Don 
Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza had heard Co- 
lumbus, and looking upon him as a grave 
man, he had an esteem for him * * * In 
January, 14',t2, he set out from Santa Fe for 
Cordova, in groat anguish, the city of Granada 
being then in possession of their Catholic 
Majesties. The same day, Lewis de Santau- 
gel told the Queen, he wondered that she, 
who had never wanted spirit for the greatest 
undertakings, should now fail, wdiere so little 
could be lost, and so nmch might be gained; 
for, in case the affair succeeded, and fell into 
the hands of another Prince, as Columbus 
affirmed it was like to do in case Spain would 
not accept of it, she might guess how preju- 
dicial it would be to her crown; and since 
Columbus appeared to be a discreet man, and 
demanded no reward but outof what he should 
find, and was willing to defray a part of the 
charge, venturing his own person also, the 
thing ought not to be looked upon as alto- 
gether so impracticable, as the cosmographers 
said, nor be reckoned as lightness to have 
attempted such a mighty enterjirize, though 
it should prove unsuccessful, inasmuch as it 
became great and generous monarchs to be 
acquainted with the wonders and secrets of 
the world, by which other Princes have gain- 
ed everlasting renown ; besides, that Colum- 



APPENDIX. 



549 



bus demanded only a million of maravedies 
to fit him out ; and therefore he intreated her 
not to suffer the apprehension of so small an 
expense to disappoint so great an enterprize 
" The Queen, finding herself importuned on 
the same account by Alonzo de Quintanilla, 
who was much in credit with her, thanked 
them for their advice, and said, she accepted 
it, provided tliey would stay till she could re- 
cover a little from the expense of the v/ar ; 
however, if they thought it should be imme- 
diately put into execution, she would consent 
that they should borrow what money was re 
quisite upon some of her jewels. Quintanilla 
and iSaiitangel kissed her hands, for that she 
had at their request resolved to do what she 
had refused to so many others, and Lewis de 
Santangel offered to lend as much of his own 
as was necessary. Upon this resolution, the 
queen ordered an Alguazil of the court to go 
post after Columbus, and to tell him from her, 
that she commanded him to return, and to 
bring him away. The Alguazil overtook him 
two leagues from Granada, at the bridge of 
Pinos, and though much concerned for the 
small regard shown him, he returned to San- 
ta Fc, where he was received, and the secre- 
tary John Coloma was ordered to draw up 
conditions and dispatches, after he had spent 
eight years inculcating the enterprize, and 
enduring many crosses and hardships." 

No. III. 
Herrera, vol. i. page 45. — " It pleased God 
in his mercy, at the lime when Don Christo- 
pher Columbus could no longer withstand so 
much muttering, contradiction and contempt, 
that on Thursday the 11th of October, of the 
aforesaid year 1492, in the afternoon, he re- 
ceived some comfort by the manifest tokens 
they perceived of their being near land ; for 
tlie men aboard the Admiral saw a green rush 
near the ship, and next a large green fish, of 
those that keep close to the rocks. Those 
aboard the caravel Pinta saw a cane and a 
staff, and took up one that was artificially 
wrought, and a little board, and saw abun- 
dance of weeds, fresh torn off the shore. 
Those aboard the caravel Nina saw other such 
like tokens, and a branch of a thorn with the 
berries on it which appeared to be newly 
broken off; for which reasons, and because 
they brought up sand on sounding, there was 
a certaintj' of their being near land, which 
was confirmed by the shifting of the winds, 
which seemed to come from shore. Colum- 
bus, being satisfiedthat he was near land, after 
night-fall, when they had said the Antiphon, 
Salve Regina, as is usual among the sailors 
every night,, he discounsed the men, telling 
them, how merciful God had been to them, 
carrying them safe so long a voyage ; and 
that, since the tokens were hourly more mani- 
fest, he desired them to watch all night, since 
they knew that, in the first article of the in- 
structions he had given them when they came 
out of Spain, he told them, that when they 



had run seven hundred leagues without dis- 
covering land, they were to lie after midnight 
till day and be upon the watch, for he firmly 
confided that they would find land that night, 
and that, besides the ten thousand maravedies' 
annuity their Highnesses had promised the 
person that should first discover it, he would 
give a velvet doublet. Two hours before 
midnight, Columbus, standing on the poop, 
he saw a light, and privately called Peter 
Gutierres, groom of the privy-chamber to the 
King," [it appears from this thattiie crew had 
not been on the watch as he desired them,] 
" and bid him look at it, and he answered he 
saw it. Then they called Pioderick Sanchez 
of Segovia purser of the fleet, who could not 
discern it ; but afterwards it v/as seen twice 
and looked like a little candle, &c. * * * 
Two hours after midnight, the caravel Pinta 
being always a-head, it made signs of land, 
which was first discovered by a sailor whose 
name was Roderick de Triana, but two leagues 
distant. But their Catliolic Majesties declared 
that the ten thousand maravedies' annuities 
belonged to the Admiral, and it was always 
paid him at the shambles of Sevil, because he 
saw the light amidst the darkness, meaning 
the spiritual light that was then coming into 
those barbarous people : God so ordered it, 
that when the war with the Moors was ended, 
after they had been seven hundred and twenty 
years in Spain, this work should be taken in 
hand, to the end thn.t the kings of Castile and 
Leon should be always employed in bringing 
infidels over to the light of the Catholic faith." 

No. IV. 
" When all things v/ere ready, and he was 
upon the point of departing, he called them 
together, and spoke to Ijiem to this effect: — 
'fie bid them offer up their prayers to God, 
and return tlianks to him for having carried 
them to such a country to plant his holy faith , 
and not forsake him, but to live like ffood 
Christians, and he would protect them. That 
they should pray to God to grant him a good 
voyage, that he might soon return to tiiem 
with a greater power ; that they should love 
and obey their captain, because it was requi- 
site for their own preservation, and he charged 
them so to do in the name of their Highnesses. 
That they should respect Gaucanagari, and 
give no offence to any of his people, nor offer 
violence to man or woman, that the opinion of 
their coming from heaven might be confirmed. 
That they should not part nor go up the 
country, nor out of Gaucanagari's dominions, 
since he loved them so well, that with his 
consent they should survey the coast in canoes 
and their boat, endeavouring to discover gold 
mines, and some good harbour, because he 
was not well pleased with that where they re- 
mained, which he called the Nativity; that 
they should endeavour to barter the most they 
could fairly, without showing covetousness ; 
and endeavour to learn the language, since it 
vfould be so useful to them, since they had 



5J0 



APPENDIX. 



opened the way to that new world.' They 
answered they would punctually perform all 
lie ordered them. Wednesday , the 2d of Jan- 
uary, 141)3, he went ashore to take his leave, 
dined with Gaucanagari and his Caziques, 
recommended the Christians to him, whom 
ho had commanded to serve and defend him 
from the Caribes. He gave him a fine shirt, 
and said, he would soon return with presents 
from the king of Spain. He answered with 
yreat tokens of sorrow for his departure." 

No. V. 
Herrrra, vol. i. page 125, having related 
how tiio Admiral founded a colony at Isabella, 
in the island of Hispaniola, left it for a time 
to build a fort in another part of the country, 
and after a time returned to it again, when he 
found many of the settlers dead, and the rest 
suffering from sickness and want of provi- 
sions, proceeds in these words -. — " He found 
tiie men much fatigued, man}^ of tliem dead, 
and those who were in health very disconso- 
late for fear they should not long survive, and 
they sickened the faster as the provisions de- 
clined. * *. * Being thus out of hopes of 
any relief, starving v/itli hunger, and sick, 
many of them persons of distinction, who had 
never undergone such hardships, they died 
very impatient and almost desperate ; and 
therefore, after tJiis colony of Isabella was 
abandoned, it was reported that dreadful cries 
were heard in tliat place, so that people durst 
not go that way. It was positively affirmed, 
that two men passing along among the build- 
ings of tlie Isabella, there appeared to them in 
tlie street, two ranks of men very well clad, 
their swords by their sides, with mufflers 
about their faces, as travellers used to wear 
at that time in Spain ; and those two persons 
wondering to see such new-comers there, so 
well dressed, whereas there was no knowledge 
of them in the island, saluted them, and asked 
them when and from whence they came ; the 
others returned no answer, but putting their 
hands to their hats, with them look off their 
Jieads, and so vanished, which was such a 
surprise to tlie aforesaid two men, that they 
came not to tliemselves in a long time after." 

No. VI. 
Plerrera, vol. i. page 252., gives this account 
of the fate of Bovadilla : — '• He (Columbus, 
from Spain) arrived there (Santo Domingo) 
the 21llh of June, and sent Peter de Terreros, 
captain of a siiip, to acquaint Nicholas de 
Obaiido with the necessity he was under of 
leaving that sliip there, and to desire he would 
permit him to enter the port with his shijis, 
not only to change or buy another, but also 
to shelter himself from a great storm he was 
sure would soon liappen. Obando would not 
consent to it, and the Admiral being informed 
that the fleet of thirty-two sail was ready to 
put to sea, sent to advise him not to ])ermit it 
to go out in eight days, because there would 
be a most dreadful tempest, for which reason 



he was going to put into the next harbour he 
should find, as accordingly he did to Puerto 
Hernioso, sixteen leagues from Santo Domin- 
go. Nicholas de Obando would not believe 
it, and the pilots made a jest of it, calling him 
a projjhet. Among many tokens of a storm 
observed by mariners, one is, the porpoises 
and other such like fishes playing upon the 
superficies of the water, from which and other 
observations the Admiral had concluded that 
there would be a storm. 

" As soon as Obando arrived at Hispaniola, 
he put ins orders in execution, and accord- 
ingly Francis de Bovidilla was sent aboard 
the fleet with Francis Roldan, and all the 
rest that had been concerned in his insurrec- 
tion, as also the Cazique Gaurinoex, lord of 
the Vale Royal, one hundred thousand cas- 
tellanos of gold, beside the above-mentioned 
vast grain of gold," (so large that they had 
dined off it instead of a table,) " and one 
hundred thousand more, belonging to passen- 
gers, at which time those two hundred thou- 
sand castellanos were worth more than two 
millions. The fleet, consisting of thirty-one 
ships, set sail about the beginning of Jul)', 
and within fort)- hours there arose such a vio- 
lent storm as had not been known in many 
years, so that twenty ships were cast away, 
and not a man saved, and all the town of 
Santo Domingo, whicli was then on the other 
side of the river, the houses being slight, was 
blown down. The Admiral's ships were dis- 
persed and in the utmost danger, but met 
again in Puerto Hermoso, and thus the Admi- 
ral and his ships escaped, and the fleet perish- 
ed because they would not believe him. 
There Francis de Bovadilla, who had sent the 
Admiral in irons to Spain, perished, as did 
Francis Roldan and his companions, who had 
rebelled against the King. The two hundred 
thousand castellanos of gold and the vast 
grain above mentioned, were also lost. The 
worst ship in the fleet, on board which the 
Admiral had four thousand pesos, escaped, 
and was the first that arrived in Spain." 

No. VII. 
Robertson's History of America, book iii. 
— " For a considerable time the supply of 
treasure from the New World was scanty and 
precarious, and the genius of Charles the 
Fiflh conducted public measures with such 
prudence that the eifects of this influence were 
little perceived. But when Pliilip the Second 
ascended the Spanish throne, with talents far 
inferior to those of his father, and remittances 
from the colonies became a' regular and a con- 
siderable branch of revenue, the fatal opera- 
tion of this rapid cliange in the state of the 
kingdom, both on the monarch and his people, 
was at once conspicuous. Phili[), possessing 
the spirit of unceasing assiduity, which often 
characterizes the ambition of men of moder- 
ate talents, entertained such an opinion of 
iiis own resources, that lie thought nothing 
too arduous for him to undertake. Shut up 



APPENDIX. 



551 



himself in the solitude of the Escurial, he 
troubled and annoyed all the nations round 
him. He waged open war with the Dutch 
and English ; he encouraged and aided a re- 
bellious faction in France ; he conquered 
Portugal, and maintained armies and garri- 
sons in Italy, Africa, and both the Indies. 
By such a multiplicity of great and complica- 
ted operations, pursued with ardour during 
the course of a long reign, Spain was drained 
both of men and money I ' 

After mentioning the wretched impolicy 
of Philip the Third, in banishing the Moors 
from Spain, continuing the subject, he 
says : — 

"In proportion as the population and man- 
ufactures of the parent state declined, the de- 
mands of her colonies continued to increase. 
The Spaniards, like their monarch, intoxicat- 
ed with the wealth which poured in annual- 
ly upon them, deserted the paths of industry 
to which they had been accustomed, and re- 
paired with eagerness to those regions from 
which this opulence issued. By this rage 
of emigration, another drain was opened, and 
the strength of the colonies augmented by 
exhausting that of the mother-country. All 
those emigrants, as well as the adventurers, 
who had at first settled in America, depend- 
ed absolutely on Spain for almost every arti- 
cle of necessary consumption. Engaged in 
more alluring and lucrative pursuits, or pre- 
vented by restraints which government im- 
posed, they could not turn their own atten- 
tion towards establishing the manufactures 
requisite to comfortable subsistence. They 
received their clothing, their furniture, wliat- 
ever ministers to the ease or luxury of life, 
and even their instruments of labour, from 
Europe. Spain, thinned of people, and de- 
creasing in industry, was unable to supply 
their growing demands. She had recourse 
to her neighbours. The manufactures of the 
low countries, of England, of France, and of 
Italy, which her wants called into existence, 
or animated with new vivacity, furnished in 
abundance whatever she required. « * * 
In short, not above a twentieth part of the 
eommodities exported to America were of 
Spanish growth or fabric : all the rest was 
the property of foreign merchants, though 
entered in the name of Spaniards. The trea- 
sure of the new world may be said hencefor- 
ward not to have belonged to Spain. Before 
it reached Europe, it was anticipated as the 
price of goods purchased from foreigners. 
That wealth which, by internal circulation, 
would have spread through each vein of in- 
dustry, and have conveyed life and move- 
ment to every branch of manufacture, flowed 
out of the kingdom with such a rapid course 
as neither enriched nor animated it. On the 
other hand, the artisans of other nations, en- 
couraged by this quick sale of iheir commodi- 
ties, improved so much in skill and industry 
as to be able to aiford them at a rate so low, 
ithat the manufactures of Spain, which could 
69 



not vie with theirs, either in quality or cheap- 
ness of work, were still more depressed. 
This destructive commerce drained off the 
riches of the nation faster and more complete- 
ly than even the extravagant schemes of am- 
bition carried on by its monarchs. Spain was 
so much astonished and distressed at behold- 
ing her American treasures vanish almost as 
soon as they were imported, that Philip the 
Third, unable to supply what was requisite in 
circulation, issued an edict, by which he en- 
deavoured to raise copper money to a value in 
currency nearly equal to that of silver ; and 
the Lord of Peruvian and Mexican mines was 
reduced to a wretched expedient, which is the 
last resource of petty impoverished states. 
* " * Spain early became sensible 
of her declensions from her former prosperi- 
ty, and many respectable and virtuous citi- 
zens employed their thoughts in devising 
methods for reviving the decaying industry 
and commerce of their country. From the 
violence of the remedies proposed, we may 
judge how desperate and fatal the malady ap- 
peared. Some, confounding a violation of 
police with criminality against the State, 
contended that, in order to check illicit com- 
merce, every person convicted of carrying it 
on sliould be punished with death and con- 
fiscation of all his effects. Others, forgetting 
the distinction between civil offences and 
acts of impiety, insisted that counterband 
trade should be ranked among the crimes re- 
served for the cognizance of the Inquisition ; 
that such as were guilty of it might be tried 
and punished, according to the secret and 
summary form in which that dreadful tribu- 
nal exercises its jurisdiction." 

No. VIII. 

Herrera, vol. iv. p. 298. — " The sevcntli 
Inga Yapaugne, as soon as his father was 
dead, paid him very great honours, and a 
greater number of women and servants was 
shut up in his tomb, to die there, and serve him 
in the other world, than any other had before ; 
and he had more treasure, more provisions, 
and more clothes, put in with them, and more 
men and women lianged themselves in their 
own hair. * ^ * This custom of burying 
women and other persons with the dead was 
universal among the mountain and Yunga 
Indians. When Aco}'a, Lord of the greatest 
part of the vale of Xauxa, died, a boy ran 
away to the Spaniards, because they would 
have shut him up alive in the prince's tomb.'' 

This author says that the Mexicans and 
those under their dominions computed, that 
every third child of the poorer sort was tak- 
en for sacrifice, and their idols were the bet- 
ter served, as the legs and arms of the vic- 
tims were a most acceptable feast to the wor- 
shippers. To the deity of argriculture, when 
the reeds of the Indian wheat were small, 
they sacrificed new born-babes, and others 
bigger, as it grew up, till it was eared and 
ripe, and then they sacrificed men. 



552 



^VPPENDIX. 



Speaking of the temple of Mexico, he says, 
vol. ii. p. 380. — " Either to shew the multi- 
tude of sacrifices they ofiered to tiieir gods, 
or to keep in their minds the remembrance of 
death, to which all men are subject, they 
had a charnel of the sculls of men, taken in 
war and sacrificed, which was without the 
temple." — After describing it, he adds : 
" Tlie number was so great, that Gomora, 
who had it from Andrew de Tapia and Gon- 
zalvo de Umbria, two persons that took the 
pains to count them, tells us, they amounted to 
above one hundred and thirty thousand sculls, 
beside tliose that were in the towers, which 
they could not count," (when we consider 
that tlie Mexicans had not been in possession, 
by their own account, of the country above 
two centuries, and the temple probably not 
built for many years after their first arrival, 
tiiis is a very great number ;) " and the said 
Gomora condemns this practice, in regard 
that they were the heads of men sacrificed, 
as being the effect of so cruel a cause as was 
the killing so many innocent persons ; and 
lie is in the right, for had they been the 
heads of men that had died a natural death, 
it was commendable to expose them to public 
view, to put the living in mind of their 
end.' 

The Indians seem to have had great inter- 
course with the devil, as well became the 
gloomy cruelty of their worship ; and the 
Spaniards, impressed with horror at the 
dreadful waste of human life for sacrifices 
and feasts, which always went together, seem 
in some degree to have credited the reality of 
tJiat intercourse. These following passages 
from Herrera are curious, and will shew how 
far this was the case : — 

" The arms over the gates of the palace, 
borne in Montezuma's colours and those of 
his ancestors, were an eagle stooping to a ty- 
ger, with tlie talons ready to lay hold. Some 
will have it to be a gritTon, not an eagle ; 
affirming that there are grifibns on the moun- 
tains of Taguacan, and that they unpeopled 
the vale of Anncutlan, devouring the inhabit- 
ants. * ** ' This is not certain, there 
being nothing to prove it but their bare word ; 
for hitherto the Spaniards never saw any 
griffon in that country, though the Indians 
sliewed the pictures of some among their an- 
tifjuities. They were represented to have 
down, and no feathers, and said to be so 
strong that they could break the strongest 
bones of men and deer ; their shape between 
a lion and an eagle, with four legs, a beak, 
talons, and wings to fly. * * '^ Pliny 
and other natural philosophers look upon 
what is said of the griffon as a fable, though 
many talcs and stories are told of them. Our 
people, never having seen any, some conclude 
and affirm, that ever since the beginning of 
idolatry among the Indians in New Spam, 
the devil was wont to appear in that shape, 
as he did in many others that were no less 
fierce and frightful." 



After describing the great riches in gold 
and jewels, &c. of a private cha}iel, " wliere 
Moiilczuma was wont to pray fnany nights, 
and the devil appeared and spoke to him, 
giving answers and advice suitable to his pe- 
tition and request," he proceeds to give an 
account of his various houses, and thus con- 
cludes : — " None of these houses belonging to 
the King were without chapels or oratories 
to the devil, whom they worshipped for the 
sake of what was there, and accordingly they 
were all large, and had many people belong- 
ing to them, which shews how superstitious 
they were, and how many ways the devil 
endeavoured to be honoured and worship- 
ped." 

In an account of the manners of Castila 
del Oro, or the country about the isthmus of 
America, there is this passage : — " There was 
a sort of men among them called masters, in 
their language, each of these had a very little 
cottage without a door, and open at the top. 
The master went into it at night, pretended 
to talk with the devil, forming several voices, 
and then told the lord what the devil had dis- 
covered and answered to him. In these 
provinces, there were witches that did harm 
to children, and even to great people at the 
instigation of the devil, who gave them oint- 
ments made of certain herbs , with which they 
daubed themselves. He appeared to them 
in the shape of a beautiful male child, to the 
end that those simple people might believe 
him without being frightened. They never 
saw his hands, or his feet; he had three 
claws like a griffon, and he attended tlie 
witches when they went to do any harm. 
The Adelanlado Pascuas de Andagoya afiirm- 
ed, he had proof that a witch was one night 
in a town, with other women, and that at 
the same time she was seen a league and a 
half from thence, at a farm, where there were 
some people belonging to her lord." 

In an account of the religion and manners 
of the India.ns in some part of the new king- 
dom of Grenada, there is this curious pas- 
sage : — " As to the origin of the human race, 
the barbarians of this country believe, that 
a man they called Are, who always lay down, 
and was not really a man, but a shadow of 
a man, carved the faces of men and women 
on pieces of wood, and casting tlicm into the 
water, they came out alive, and he married 
them. They went away from him, began to 
till the ground, and they never saw that Arc 
again ; and this, they say, happened on the 
other side of the great river the Magdalen. 
Their prayers and devotions were performed 
on the water, and the devil strangely deluded 
them, and they talked with him, who per- 
suaded them that it was not good to go to 
heaven, besides many more absurdities. 
They accounted the Sun their lather and the 
Moon their mother ; and when she was 
eclipsed they wept, saying, ' Whither arc you 
going, mother .' ' &c. * * * And then 
they made noise with their trumpets, pipes, 



APPENDIX. 



553 



drums and other instruments ; and the devil 
persuaded them that the heaven with all its 
hght would be turned upside down." 

In mentioning the Indians amongst the 
mountains af Abibe — " Most of the Indians 
about this mountain were subject to a Ca- 
zique, Nutibara, who was carried about on a 
golden bier, and had heads of his enemies 
before his house, for they were wont to eat 
their bodies ; they worshipped the Sun ; the 
devil appeared, and spoke to them in several 
shapes. An Indian woman, who went away 
with Bovadillo's men, told them, that when 
captain Cesar returned to Carthagena, the 
prime men of those vales assembled, and hav- 
ing offered extraordinary sacrifices, the devil 
appeared to them in the shape of a tyger, and 
told them that those men come from beyond 
sea, and would soon return to subdue the 
country, therefore they should prepare for 
their defence ; and thee he vanished, after 
whicli preparations were made accordingly, 
and all the gold being taken out of the graves, 
was hid." 

In another part of the history, he says, — 
" In this city of Tlascala was a spring to 
which they carried new-born children to be 
bathed, in the nature of baptism, which the}' 
thought delivered them from misfortunes, 
and there they offered flowers, perfumes, and 
sacrificed men. They were great conjurers, 
wizards and diviners ; used to cast lots, and 
believe in dreams and prodigies. They saw 
strange apparitions of the devil, in the shape 
of a lion, tyger, or other borrowed body, and 
he would talk to them, and was known by 
having no shadow, no small bones in the 
joints, neither eye-brows nor eye-lids, his 
eyes round, without balls or white. " * 
* * Their temples were pyramidal, 
with steps going up to the top, where was one 
or two little chapels, and before them large 
colunms, with fires and perfumes on them day 
and night. * -f * They were 
exact in the service of their temples, and the 
greatest sacrifice was of men and dogs, so 
that there were shambles of dogs sacrificed ; 
but the prime sacrifice of all was that of the 
first prisoner taken in war. One who had 
been a priest, and was converted, said, that 
when they tore out the heart of the wretched 
person sacrificed, it did beat so strongly, that 
iie took it up from the ground three or four 
times, till it cooled by degrees, and then he 
flirew the body, still moving down the steps. 
To know whether the devil consented to 
what they asked, they offered him something 
like henbane,' an herb reckoned of great vir- 
tue for distempers, wliich they placed on cer- 
tain vessels on the altar ; when the priests 
came to see those vessels, and found the print 
of eagle'sfeet on them, they declared the same 
to the people, and then they joyfully began 
the solemnity witii trumpets, drums, horns, 
and other instruments, the multitude celebrat- 
ing that token given them by the devil." 



LADY GRISELD BAILLIE. 

WoDROw's History, page 394. chap. 8. 
book 3. — " Mr. Robert I3aillie of Jerviswoode, 
with whose sufferings I shall end this section, 
was a gentleman who had testimony of some 
of the greatest men of this age, whom I could 
name, for the best of men and greatest of 
statesmen, and so was a very proper object of 
the fury of this period, and could scarce escape 
the rage and malice of the duke of York, and 
such as were with him, carrying on the plot 
against our religion, reformation, and liberty. 
''" Indeed, he fell a sacrifice for our holy ref- 
ormation, and received the crown of martyr- 
dom on account of his zealous appearances 
against popery and arbitrary power. I can 
never consider this great man, and several 
others, in this and succeeding years, of the 
most judicious and notable of our martyrs, 
neglected of design by the collectors of the 
cloud of witnesses, but I blame their private 
and party spirit. 

" Jerviswood's trial was publislied by the 
managers, and I may perhaps make some re- 
marks afterwards upon it. I shall here give 
some few hints I meet with in the records 
with relation to him when before the council, 
of which there is nothing in his printed trial. 

" Through his long confinement and bad 
treatment when in prison, this good man 
turned very sickly and tender ; and it was 
reckoned almost certain by all, that, had the 
managers spared this gentleman a few weeks 
longer, they would have been rid of him by a 
natural death, and escaped the indelible blot 
of inhumanity and barbarity to so excellent 
a person. He was evidently a dying man 
when tried before the Justiciary, and was 
obliged to appear in his nightgown before 
them, and was scarce able to stand when he 
spake ; and yet he was kept in the pannel for 
ten hours, and behoved to take cordials sev- 
eral times ; and next day he was carried in a 
chair in his nightgown to the scaffold. 

" By the council books, I find, August 18., 
■'the Lady Jerviswood is, upon her petition, 
allowed to see her dying husband with the 
physicians, but to speak nothing to him but 
what they hear and are witness to.' I am of 
opinion, this low state of his health put the 
managers at first off" the design of processing 
him criminally ; and to secure his estate, 
while he is dying a natural death, brought on 
bv their maltreatment, they raise a process, in 
order to fine him to the value of six thousand 
pounds. 

" Thus, August 30. the Council order the 
Advocate to pursue Jerviswood for resetting, 
entertaining and corresponding with rebels, 
and, as far as I can find, he was not able to 
appear before the council when they passed 
a decree against him, only he ordered his ad 
vocate to appear for him." 

Page 39— (The interrogatories put to Jer- 
viswood on his examination by a committee 
appointed by the council.) 



554 



APPENDIX. 



"1. Did you harbour or intercommune 
vvitii Mr. Samuel Arnot.'"' &c. «&c. (a long 
list of names.) 

" 2. Did you reset Alexander Tweedy, your 
gardener, after Both wel-bridge ? " (Refusing 
to answer to these, he was fined in the sum 
of six thousand pounds.) 

" September 10. — The council give orders 
to remove tiie Lady Garden, his sister, and 
the Lady Jerviswood, from his room in prison, 
they being informed he is recovered of his in- 
disposition. We shall find tliis was but a very 
slender recovery, and that afterwards he grew 
worse, in part no doubt from being deprived 
of the care of these excellent ladies; and, 
November [), the Lady Garden is allowed to 
be close prisoner with Jerviswood, because of 
his valetudinary condition. 

"He continued in prison, still weaker and 
weaker, till December 18th, when 1 find the 
king's advocate is ordered to pursue a process 
of treason and forfeiture against Mr. Robert 
Baillie of Jerviswood, to-morrow at two of the 
clock ; and Sir George Lockart of Cainwath, 
and Sir John Lauder, advocates, are appoint- 
ed to concur with tlie king's advocates in the 
process. I need not again remark, that this 
was to prevent Jcrviswood's employing ihem 
in defence of his just rights. However, the 
time was exceeding shorty and therefore, 
though it seems to be the more straitning to 
him, the libel and indictment were not put 
in his hands till the 22d. Upon the 23d, Jer- 
viswood gives a petition to the council, shew- 
ing,— 

'• ' That only yesterday he received an in- 
dictment of treason, at eleven of the clock, to 
appear before the justiciary this day at two 
of the clock in the afternoon, which is so 
short a time, that the petitioner has got no 
lawyer consulted, nor time to raise his letters 
of exculpation for proving his defences and 
objections against the witnesses, as is allowed 
by the Act of Regulation, and the ordinary 
time in such cases is fifteen days : and the 
petitioner at present being so sick and weak, 
that he is not able to come over his bed, with- 
out being lifted, as appears by the testimony 
of his physicians ; wherefore he humbly sup- 
plicates that the council may prorogate the diet 
to some competent lime, and allow him law- 
yers, viz. Sir Patrick Hume, Mr. Walter Prin- 
gle, Mr. James Graham, Mr. William Fletch- 
er, Mr. James Falconer, and Mr. William 
Baillie." — The council refuse to prorogate the i 
diet, ' but grant him the advocates he seeks, 
and allow them to plead without hazard ; they 
containing themselves in their pleadings in 
terms of law and loyalty, as they shall ansAver 
it at their peril.' 

" Jcrviswood's advocates pled that he 
ought not to pass to the knowledge of an as- 
size, because he had not received a citation 
of fifteen days, &c. &c. Tliat his harbour- 
ing, entertaining and inlercommuning with 
the persons named, is res liactemis judicata, 



and the pannel already fined in a vast sura 
on that account. The advocate then restrict- 
ed to the pannel's entering into a conspiracy 
for raising a rebellion, and for procuring mon- 
ey to be sent to the Earl of Argyle, and for 
concealing this. The Earl of Tarras was 
brought as a witness against Jerviswood, 
against whose evidence it was objected, that, 
being himself under an indictment for high 
treason, and under the fear of death, his tes- 
timony ought not to be admitted. The Lords 
repelled all objections and called the Earl as 
a witness. His deposition," says Wodrow, 
" and that of commissionary Monro, Philip- 
haugh, and Gallowshiels, have more than 
once been printed, not only in Jcrviswood's 
process, but in Prat's History of the Ryehouse 
Plot, and I shall not here enter on the detail 
of them. They prove that Jerviswood, being 
in hazard, as all the nation were, of oppres- 
sion, after the unaccountable decision in 
Blackwood's case, went up to London, and 
did speak and talk anent methods to bring 
in the King, to exclude a popish successor ; 
and that they discoursed likewise upon mon- 
ey to be sent to the Earl of Argyle, and Mr. 
Martin. In May, 1G83, came down to Scotland 
witii some proposals to the Earl of Tarras, 
Philiphaugli, Gallowshiels, and some others, 
to engage them to a rising, when England 
rose for the security of the protestant religion; 
but as to a design against the king's life, noth- 
ing of that was known to any of them. Most 
part of them relate to the plot (as it was called) 
and design them in hand, and very little mil- 
itates against Jerviswood in particular. They 
all adhere judicially to their depositions made 
before the Lords of the secret committee. 

" Before the assize closed, the advocate had 
a most bloody and severe speech to them, 
wherein every thing is stretched to the utter- 
most against the pannel. I shall not insert it 
here, since it is already published. In short, 
he urges the appointment of a thanksgiving, 
for the discovery of a conspiracy through the 
nations^ the practice ofthe judges in England, 
who found proof enough to forfeit some of all 
ranks, and insists upon the witnesses being 
Jcrviswood's relations ; and if he be not pun- 
ished, no man can ; the conspiracy is a cheat, 
the King'sjudges murderers, and the witnesses 
knaves ; and such as have died martyrs. * 
* * I wish I could give as good an ac- 
count of the moving speech Mr. Baillie had 
to the impicst, and the home thrusts he gave 
the advocate ; but I can only say, he appeal- 
ed to the advocate's conscience, whether he 
was not satisfied as to his innocence, and had 
not owned so much to himself; which the 
other acknowledged, but added he acted now 
by order from the government ; and to the 
advocate and judges, he, like a dying man, 
most pathetically disclaimed any access to, or 
knowledge of, any design against the King or 
his brother's life; but added, if his life must 
go for his essays to prevent a popish succes- 



APPENDIX. 



6£d 



sion, he owned them, and heartily parted with 
his hfe as a testimony against a papist's 
mounting the throne. * * « Thus 
this saint of God is hasted away to his fath- 
er's house. In two days' time they begin and 
end his process, and executed him as if they 
liad been in fear of being prevented by a 
natural death. His carriage was most sedate, 
courageous, and Christian, after his sentence 
and during the liours he had to live : and at 
his execution he was in the greatest serenity 
of soul possible almost for a person on tiiis 
side of heaven, though extremely low in 
body. He prepared a speech to liave deliv- 
ered on the scaffold, but was hindered. Un- 
der the prospect of this, he left copies with 
his friends, and it deserves a room here, as 
containing a short and distinct view of his 
case." (See the last speech of Mr. Robert 
Baillie of Jerviswood, who died at the cross 
of Edinburgh, Dec. 24, 1684, in Woodrow's 
Hist, book iii. chap. 8.) 

" I have several circumstances of this ex- 
cellent person's carriage during the trial and 
execution too large to be inserted here. 
Wlien his sentence was intimated^ he said, 
' My Lords, the time is short, the sentence is 
sharp, but I thank niy God, who hath made 
me as fit to die as ye are to live.' When sent 
back to his room in the prison, after the sen- 
tence, he leaned over on the bed, and fell in- 
to a wonderful rapture of joy, from the assur- 
ance he had, that in a few hours he should 
be inconceivably happy. Being, after a little 
silence, asked how he was, lie answered 
' Never better, and in a few hours I'll be well 
beyond all conception ; they are going to 
send me in pieces and quarters through the 
country ; they may hag and hew my body as 
they please, but I know assuredly nothing 
shall be lost, but all these, my members, shall 
be wonderfully gathered, and made like 
Christ's glorious body.' When at the scaf- 
fold, he was not able to go up the ladder 
without support. When on it, he said ' My 
faint zeal for the Protestant religion has 
brought me to this end ; ' and the drums in- 
terrupted him." 

Wodrow's additions and amendments to 
vol. i. and ii. — " After the case of that singu- 
lar person, Baillie of Jerviswood, was printed 
off, I received a narrative of some further cir- 
cumstances of his trial, from a worthy friend 
of mine, who was present, and a mournful 
spectator. What passed made so deep an im- 
pression, that he is distinct as to the very 
words and phrases that were used; and 1 
thought they deserved a room here. 

" Jerviswood, being much indisposed, came 
to the bar of the justiciary in his nightgown, 
attended by his sister, who several times gave 
him cordials, he being so ill that he was oblig- 
ed to sit down on a stool. He heard all very 

patiently, only when was reading his 

long narrative, Jerviswood would now and 
then look upwards, and hold up his hands. 
When the declarations and affidavits that 



came from England were read, he appeared 
to be in some concern, and said, ' Oh, oh I ' 
staring upon the king's advocate." 

" But when the advocate, in his discourse 
to the assize, insisted on those declarations, 
and affidavits, and enlarged more fully upon 
them in the speech he caused print in Jervis- 
wood's trial, then Jerviswood stared at him 
very broad, and appeared to be very much 
troubled. 

" After the advocate had ended his discourse, 
Jerviswood desired liberty of the Earl of Lin- 
lithgow to speak a few words, not being able 
to say much, because of his great weakness ; 
which being granted, he spoke to this pur- 
pose : ' That the sickness now upon him, in 
all human appearance, would soon prove mor- 
tal, and he could not live many days ; but he 
found he was intended as a public sacrifice in 
his life and estate ; that he would say nothing 
as to the justice of their Lordship's interlocu- 
tor, and was sorry his trial liad given them so 
much and so long trouble, by staying so 
long in the Court, it being then past midnight. 
And then addressed himself to the assize, 
telling them he doubted not but they would 
act as men of honour, that there were hard 
things in the depositions of the witnesses 
against him, v/hicJi was to be their rule, and 
that nothing he could say was to prevail with 
them ; yet, for the exoneration of his own 
conscience, and that his poor memory and 
family might not suffer unjustly, he behoved 
to saj', that the most material witnesses were 
correspondents, (viz. convicted of connection ' 
with the conspirators.) and life might be pre- 
cious to some of them. But there is one 
thing,' says he, ' which vexes me extremely, 
and wherein I am injured to the utmost de- 
gree, and that is, for a plot to cut off the King 
and His Royal Highness, and that I sat up 
nights to form a decjaration to palliate or jus- 
tify such a villany. I am in probability to 
appear, in some liours, before the tribunal of 
the Great Judge, and in presejiee of your 
lordships and all here, T sSTemnly declare 
that never was I prompted or privy to any 
such thing-, and that I abhor and detest all 
thoughts or principles for touching the life of 
His Sacred Majesty or his royal brother. I 
was ever for monarchical government, ' And 
then looking directly upon the king's advo- 
cate, he said, ' My Lord, I think it very 
strange that you charge me with such abom- 
inable things; you may remember, that when 
you came to me in prison, you told me such 
were laid to my charge, but you did not 
believe them. How then, my Lord, come 
you to lay such a stain upon me with so 
much violence.-' Are you now convinced in 
your conscience that I am more guilty than 
before ? You may remember what past be- 
twixt ns in prison.' The whole audience 
fixed their eyes upon the advocate, who ap- 
peared in no small confusion, and said, ' Jer- 
viswood, 1 own what you say, my thoughts 
there was as a private man ; but what I say 



556 



APPENDIX. 



]iere is by special direction of the privy coun- 
cil; and' pointing to Sir William Patterson 
Clerk, added, ' ho knows my orders.' — 
'Well,' said Jerviswood, ' if your lordsliip 
have one conscience for yourself and another 
for the council, 1 pray God forgive you ! 1 
tlo.' And turning to the justice-general, he 
said, ' My lord, 1 trouble your lordships no 
further.' ' 

Hume's Plist. of England, chap. 69. — " The 
(!Ourt was aware that the malcontents of Eng- 
land, held a correspondence with those of 
Scotland : and that Baillie of Jerviswood, a 
man of merit and learning, witli two gentle- 
men of the name of Campbell, had come to 
London under pretence of negociating tlie 
settlement of the Scottish Presbyterians in 
Carolina, but really with a view of concert- 
ing measures with the English conspirators. 
Baillie was sent prisoner to Edinburgh ; but 
as no evidence appeared against him, the 
council required him to swear, that he would 
answer all questions tliat should be propound- 
ed to him. Ho refused to submit to so ini- 
quitous a condition , and a fine of six thou- 
sand pounds was imposed upon him. At 
length two persons, Spence and Carstairs, be- 
ing put to the torture, gave evidence which 
involved the Earl of Tarras and some others, 
who, in order to save themselves, were in- 
duced to accuse Baillie. He was brought to 
trial 3 and being in so languishing a condition 



from the -treatment which he had met with 
in prison, that it was feared he would not 
survive that night, he was ordered to be 
executed the very afternoon on which he re- 
ceived sentence." 

The husband of lady Griseld inherited the 
virtue and firmness of his father. " In the 
year 171.5, though tlien in the treasury, which 
might have made him silent in giving an 
opinion against the measures of the court, he 
pubhcly declared himself for mercy to the 
poor uniiappy sufferers by the rebellion, and 
araon<rst many arguments for it in a long 
speech he made in parliament, which he be- 
gan by saying, he had been bred in the school 
of aftliction, which had instructed him in both 
the reasonableness and necessity of showing 
mercy to others in like circumstances, con- 
cluded by entreating them to take the advice 
which the Prophet Elisha gave to the King of 
Israel, in the 2d book of Kings, 6tli chap. 22d 
and 23d verses. ' And he answered, thou 
shalt not smite them : would'st thou smite 
tliose whom thou hast taken captive with thy 
sv. ord and with thy bow .'' Set bread and wa- 
ter before them, that they may eat and drink, 
and go to their master. And he prepared 
great provision for them ; and when they 
had eaten and drank, he sent them away, and 
they went to their master. So the bands of 
Syria came no more into the land of Israel.' " 
— Lady M.'s JVar. 



FUGITIVE PIECES, 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



LORD JOHN OF THE EAST. 
The fire blazed bright till deep midnight, 
And the guests sat in the hall, 
And the Lord of tlie feast, Lord John of the 

East, 
Was the merriest of them all. 

His dark-grey eye, that wont so sly 
Beneath his helm to scowl, 
Flash'd keenly bright, like a nc w-wak'd sprite, 
As pass'd the circling bowl. 

In laughter light, or jocund lay. 
That voice was heard, whose sound. 
Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray 
Did foe-men fierce astound ; 

And stretch'd so balm, like lady's palm. 
To every jester near. 
That liand which thro' a prostrate foe 
Oft thrust the ruthless spear. 

The gallants sang, and the goblets rang, 
And they revel'd in careless state. 
Till a thund'ring sound , that shook the ground. 
Was heard at the castle gate . 

" Who knocks without, so loud and stout .' 
" Some wand'ring knight, I ween, 
" Who from afar, like a guiding star, 
" Our blazing hall hath seen. 

" If a stranger it be of high degree, 
" (No churl durst make such din,) 
" Step forth amain, my pages twain, 
" And soothly ask him in. 

" Tell him our cheer is the forest deer, 
" Our bowl is mantling high, 
" And the Lord ofthe feast is John of the East, 
" Who welcomes him courteously" 

The pages twain return'd again. 
And a wild, scared look had they ; 
" Why look ye so .' — is it friend or foe .■' " 
Did the angry Baron say. 

" A stately knight without doth wait, 

" But further he will not hie, 

" Till the Baron himself shall come to the gate, 

" And ask him courteously." — 

" By my mother's shroud, he is full proud ! 

" What earthly man is he .' " 

"I know not, in truth," quoth the trembling 

youth, 
" If earthly man it be. 

" In Raveller's plight, he is bedight, 
" With a vest ofthe crim'.'sy meet ; 
70 



" But his mantle behind, that streams on the 

wind, 
" Is a corse's bloody sheet." 

" Out, paltry child ! thy wits are wild, 
" Thy comrade will tell me true : 
" Say plainly, then, what hast thou seen ^ 
" Or dearly shalt thou rue." 

Faint spoke the second page with fear. 
And bent him on his knee, 
" Were I on your father's sword to swear, 
'' The same it appear'd to me." 

Then dark, dark lower'd the Baron's eye. 
And his red cheek changed to wan ; 
For again at the gate more furiously. 
The thund'ring din began. 

" And is there ne'er of my vassals here, 
" Of high or low degree, 
" That will unto this stranger go, — 
" Will go for the love of me ? " 

Then spoke and said, fierce Donald the Red, — 
(A fearless man was he.) 
" Yes : I will straight to the castle gate, 
'• Lord John, for the love of thee." 

With heart full stout, he hied him out, 
Whilst silent all remain : 
Nor moved a tongue those gallants a mono-, 
Till Donald return'd again. 

" O speak," said his Lord, '• by thy hopes of 

grace, 
" What stranger must we hail .' " 
But the haggard look of Donald's face 
Made his falt'ring words to fail. 

'• It is a knight in some foreign guise, 
" His like did I never behold ; 
" For the stony look of his beamless ej'es 
" Made my very life-blood cold. 

'• I did him greet in fashion meet, 

" And bade him your feast partake, 

" But the voice that spoke, when he silence 

broke, 
"Made the earth beneath me quake. 

" O such a tone did tongue ne'er own 

" That dwelt in mortal head ; — 

" It is lijie a sound from the hollow ground, — 

" Like the voice ofthe coffin'd dead. 

" I bade him to your social board, 
"But in he will not hie, 
" Until at the gate this castle's Lord 
" Shall entreat him courteously. 



558 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



" And he stxclch'd him the while wi'Ji a 

gliastly smile, 
" And sternly bado ine say, 
" 'Tvvas no deputc's task your guest to ask 
" To the feast of the woody bay." 

Tale grew the F.aron, and faintly said, 
As he heaved his breath with pain, 
" From such a feast as there was spread, 
" Do any return again .'' 

'■ I bade my guest to a bloody fi^ast, 

" Where the death's wound was his fare, 

" And the isle's bright maid, wlio my love 

beti-ay'd, 
" She tore her raven hair. 

" The sea-fowl screams, and the watch-tower 

gleams, 
" And the deaf'ning billows roar, 
" Where he unblest was put to rest, 
" On a wild and distant shore. 

" Do the hollow grave and the whelming wave 
" Give up their dead again ? 
« Doth the surgy waste waft o"er its breast 
" The spirits of the slain .= " 

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd 

The big drops from his brow. 

As louder still the third time roar'd 

The thund'ring gate below. 

" O rouse thee, Baron, for manhood's worth ! 
" Let good or ill befall, 

" Tiiou must to the strunger knight go forth, 
"And ask him to your hall." 

" Rouse thy bold breast," said each eager 

guest, 
'■ What boots it shrinking so ? 
" Be it fiend or sprite, or murder'd knight, 
"In God's name thou must go. 

" Why should'st thou fear? dost thou not wear 

" A gift from the great Glendower, 

" Satidals blest by a holy priest, 

" O'er which nought ill hath power." 

AH ghastly pale did the Baron quail. 
As he turn'd him to the door, 
And his sandals blest, by a holy priest, 
Sound feebly on the iloor. 

Then back to the hall and his merry mates all. 
He cast his parting eye. 
" God send thee amain, safe back again ! " 
He heav'd a heavy sigli. 

Then Usten'd tiicy, on tlic lengthcn'd way, 
To his faint and less'ning tread. 
And, when that, was past, to the wailing blast. 
That wail'd as for the dead. 

But wilder it grew, and stronger it blew. 
And it rose with an elrich sound, 



Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep, 
Fell hurling to the ground. 

Each fearful eye then glanced on high. 
To the lofty-window'd wall. 
When a fiery trace of the Baron's face 
Thro' the casements shone on all. 

But the vision'd glare pass'd thro' the air, 
And the raging tempest ceast. 
And never more, on sea or shore, 
Was seen Lord John of the East. 

The sandals, blest by a holy priest. 
Lay unscath'd on the swarded green, 
But never again, on land or main, 
Lord John of the East was seen. 



MALCOM'S HEIR. 

O GO not by Duntorloch's Walls 
When the moon is in the wane, 
And cross not o'er Duntorloch's Bridge, 
The farther bank to gain. 

For there the Lady of the Stream 
In dripping robes you'll spy, 
A-singing to her pale wan babe, 
An elricii lullaby. 

And stop not at the house of Merne, 

On the eve of good Saint John, 

For then the Swath'd Knight walks his rounds 

With many a heavy moan. 

All swath'd is he in coffin weeds, 
And a wound is in his breast, 
And he points still to the gloomy vault, 
Where tliey say his corse doth rest. 

But pass not near Glencromar's Tower, 
Tho' the sun shine e'er so bright ; 
More dreaded is that in the noon of day, 
Than these in the noon of night. 

The night-shade rank grows in the court, 
And snakes coil in the wall. 
And bats lodge in the rifted spire. 
And owls in the murky hall. 

On it there shines no cheerful light, 
But the deep-red setting sun 
Gleams bloody red on its battlements 
When day's fair course is run. 

And fearfully in night's pale beams. 
When the moon peers o'er the wood, 
Its shadow grim stretch'd o'er the ground 
Lies blackening many a rood. 

No sweet bird's chirping there is heard, 
No herd-boy's horn dotii blow ; 
But the owlet hoots, and tlie pent blast sobs, 
And loud croaks the carrion-crow. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



559 



No marvel ! for within its walls 
Was done the deed unblest, 
And in its noisome vaults the bones 
Of a father's murderer rest. 

He laid his father in the tomb 
With deep and solemn woe, 
As rumour tells, but righteous Heaven 
Would not be mocked so. 

There rest his bones in the mouldering earth, 
By lord and by carle forgot ; 
But the foul, fell spirit that in them dwelt, 
Rest hath it none, I wot ! 

"Another night," quoth Malcom's heir, 
As he turn'd him fiercely round, 
And closely clench'd his ireful hand, 
And stamp'd upon the ground : 

" Another night witiiin your walls 

" r will not lay my head, 

*•' Tho' the clouds of heaven my roof should be, 

" And the cold dank earth my bed." 

'•' Your younger son has now your love, 

" And my stepdame false your ear ; 

" And his are your hawks, and his are your 

hounds, 
" And his your dark-brown deer. 

" To him you have given your noble steed, 
" As fleet as the passing wind ; 
" But me have you shamed before my friends, 
" Like the son of a base-born hind. " 

Then answer'd him the white-hair'd chief, 
Dim was his tearful eye, 
" Proud son, thy anger is all too keen, 
" Thy spirit is all too high. 

" Yet rest this night beneath my roof, 
" The wind blows cold and shrill, 
" With to-morrow's dawn, if it so must be, 
" E'en follow thy wayward will." 

But nothing moved was Malcom's heir, 
And never a word did he say, 
But cursed his father in his heart. 
And sternly strode away. 

And his coal-black steed he mounted straight. 
As twilight gather'd round. 
And at liis feet witli eager speed 
Ran Swain, his faithful hound. 

Loud rose the blast, yet ne'ertheless 
With furious speed rode he. 
Till night, like the gloom of acav^rn'd mine. 
Had closed o'er tower and tree. 

Loud rose the blast, thick fell the rain. 
Keen flash'd the light'ning red. 
And loud the awful thunder roar'd 
O'er his unshelter'd head. 



At length full close before him shot 

A flash of sheeted light, 

And the high-arch'd gate of Glencroman's 

tower, 
Glared on his dazzled sight. 

His steed stood still, nor step would move. 
Up look'd his wistful Swain, 
And wagg'd his tail, and feebly whined ; 
He lighted down amain. 

Thro' porcii and court he pass'd, and still 
His list'ning ear he bow'd. 
Till beneath the hoofs of his trampling steed 
The paved hall echoed loud. 

And other echoes answer gave 
From arches far and grand ; 
Close to his horse and his faithful dog 
He took his fearful stand. 

The night-birds shriek'dfrom the creviced roof 
And the fitful blast sung shrill : 
But ere the mid-watch of the nigiit, 
Were all things hush'd and still. 

But in the mid-watch of the night, 
When hush'd was every sound, 
Faint, doleful music struck his ear. 
As if waked from the hollow ground. 

And loud and louder still it grew. 

And upward still it wore. 

Till it seem'd at the end of the farthest aisle 

To enter the eastern door. 

O ! never did music of mortal make 
Such dismal sounds contain ; 
A horrid elrich dirge it seem'd, — 
A wild unearthly strain. 

The yell of pain, and the wail of woo. 
And the short shrill shriek of fear, 
Thro' the winnowing sound of a furnace flame, 
Confusedly struck his ear. 

And the serpent's hiss, and the tyger's growl, 
And the famisli'd vulture's cry. 
Were niix'd at times, as with measured skill, 
In this horrid harmony. 

Up brizzled the locks of Malcom's heir, 
And his heart it quickly beat. 
And his trembling steed shook under his hand, 
And Swain cower'd close to his feet. 

When, lo ! a faint light thro' the porch 
Still strong and stronger grew. 
And shed o'er the wails and the lofty roof 
Its wan and dismal hue. 

And slowly ent'ring then appear'd. 
Approaching with soundless tread, 
A funeral band in dark array. 
As in honour of the dead. 



5G0 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



The first that walk'd were torclimen ten, 
To lighton tlieir gloomy road, 
And c.aoli wore the face of an angry fiend, 
And on cloven goats' feet trod. 

And the next that walk'd as mourners meet, 
Were murderers twain and twain, 
With bloody hands and surtout red, 
Befoul'd with many a stain. 

Each with a cut-cord round his neck, 
And red-strain'd, starting eyen, 
Show'd that upon the gibbet tree 
His earthly end had been. 

And after these, in solemn state, 
There came an open bier, 
Borne on black, shapeless, rampant forms. 
That did but half appear. 

And on that bier a corse was laid, 
As corse could never lie, 
That did by decent hands composed 
In nature's struggles die. 

Nor stretch'd, nor swalh'd, but every limb 

In strong distortion lay, 

As in the throes of a violent death 

Is fix'd the lifeless clay. 

And in its breast was a broken knife, 
With the black blood bolter'd round ; 
And its face was the face of an aged man. 
With the filleted locks unbound. 

Its features were fixed in horrid strength. 
And tlie glaze of its half-closed eye 
A last dread parting look express'd. 
Of woe and agony. 

But, oh ! the horrid form to trace. 
That followed it close behind, 
In fashion of the chief-mourner, 
What words shall minstrel find .' 

In his lifted hand, with straining grasp, 
A broken knife he press'd, 
The other half of the cursed blade 
Was that in the corse's breast. 

And in his blasted, horrid face, 
Full strongly mark'd, I ween, 
The features of the aged corse 
In life's full prime were seen. 

Aye, gnash thy teeth and tear thy hair, 
And roll thine eye-balls wild. 
Thou liorribie accursed son, 
With a father's blood defiled ! 

Ba.ck from the bier with strong recoil, 
Still onward as they o-o, 
Doth he in vain his harrovv'd head. 
And writhing body throw. 

For, closing round, a band of fiends 
Full fiercely with him deal, 



And force liira o'er the bier to bend. 
With their fangs of red-hot steel. 

Still on they moved, and stopp'd at length. 
In the midst of the trembling hall. 
When the dismal dirge, from its loudest pitch, 
Sunk to a dying fall. 

But what of horrour next ensued, 

No mortal tongue can tell, 

For the thrill'd life paus'd in Malcom's heir, 

In a death-like trance he fell. 

The morning rose with cheerful light. 
On the country far and near, 
But neither in country, tower, nor town, 
Could they find Sir Malcom's heir. 

They sought him east, they sought him west, 
O'er hill and vale they ran. 
And met him at last on the blasted heath, 
A crazed and wretched man . 

He will to no one utter his tale. 

But the priest of St. Cuthbert's cell, 

And aye, when the midnight warning sounds, 

He hastens his beads to tell. 



NOTE. 

Tke yell of pain, and the wail of woe, 
Jind the short shrill shriek of fear, 
Thro' the icinnowing sound of a furnace flame. 
—P. 559. 
In Miss Holford's poem of Margaret of An- 
jou, there is an assemblage of sounds, preced- 
ing a scene of terrific incantation, which is 
finely imagined, and produces a powerful ef- 
fect: and this passage in my second ballad 
may, perhaps, lead the reader to suppose that 
I have had that description in my mind when 
I wrote it. Had this been the case, I should 
have owned it readily. But the Ballad of 
Malcom's heir was written several years be- 
fore the publication of the above-mentioned 
poem, and in the hands of the inmiediate 
friends of my own family : though, as no copy 
of it was ever given avi'ay, it was impossible 
it could ever reach further. I therefore claim 
it, though acknowledging great inferiority, as 
a coincidence in thought with that distinguish- 
ed author. 

" Their senses reel'd, — for every sound 
Which the ear loves not, fill'd the air ; 
Each din that reason might confound 
Echoed in ceaseless tumult there ! 
Swift whirling wheels, — the shriek intense 
Of one who dies by violence ; — 
Yells, hoarse and deep, from blood-hounds' 

throat ; 
The night-crow's evil-boding note ; 
Such wild" and chattering sounds as throng 
Upon the moon-struck ideot's tongue ; 
The roar of bursting flames, the dash 
Of waters wildly swelling round, 
Which, unrestrain'd by dyke or mound, 
Leap down at once with hideous crash." 

Margaret of Anjou^ Cant. VII 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



561 



THE ELDEN TREE. 

A FEAST \V€as spread in tho Baron's hall, 
And loud was the merry sound, 
As minstrels played at lady's call, 
And the cup went sparkling round. 

For gentle dames sat there, 1 trow, 
By men of mickle might, 
And many a chief with dark-red brow. 
And many a burly knight. 

Each had fought in war's grim ranks, 
And some on the surgy sea. 
And some on Jordan's sacred banks. 
For the cause of Christcntie. 

But who thinks now of blood or strife, 
Or Moorish or Paynim foe .' 
Their eyes beam bright with social life, 
And their hearts with kindness glow. 

" Gramercie Chieftain, on thy tale ! 
" It smacks of thy merry mood." — 
" Aye, Monks are sly, and woinen frail, 
" Since rock and mountain stood." 

" Fye, fye ! sir knight, thy tongue is keen, 
" 'Tis sharper than thy steel," — 
" So gentle lady, are thine eyen, 
" As we poor lovers feel." 

" Come, pledge me well, my lady gay, 
" Come, pledge me, noble frere ; 
" Each clieerful mate on such a day, 
" Is friend or mistress dear." 

And louder still comes jeer and boast, 
As the flaggons faster pour, 
Till song, and tale, and laugh are lost 
In a wildly mingled roar. 

Aye, certes, 'tis an hour of glee. 
For the Baron himself doth smile, 
And nods his head right cheerily. 
And quaffs his cup the while. 

What recks he now of midnight fear. 
Or the night wind's dismal moan ? 
As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree, 
Which he thinketh so oft upon ? 

Long years have past since a deed was done, 
By its doer only seen. 

And there lives not a man beneath the sun. 
Who wotteth that deed hath been. 

So gay was he, so gay were all. 
They mark'd not the growing gloom ; 
Nor wist they how the dark'ning hall 
Lower'd like the close of doom. 

Dull grew the goblet's sheen, and grim 
The features of every guest, 
And colourless banners aloft hung dim, 
Like the clouds of the drizzly west. 



Hath time pass'd then so swift of pace ? 
Is this the twilight grey ? 
A flash of ligiit pass'd tliro' the place. 
Like the glaring noon of day. 

Fierce glanced the momentary blaze 
O'er all the gallant train, 
And each visage pale, with dazzled gaze, 
Was seen and lost again. 

And the thunder's rolling peal, from far, 
Then on and onward drew, 
And varied its sound like the broil of war. 
And loud and louder grew. 

Still glares the lightning blue and pale, 
And roars th' astounding din ; 
And rattle the windows with bickering hail, 
And the rafters ring within. 

And cowering hounds the board beneath 
Are howling with piteous moan. 
While lords and dames sit still as death. 
And words are utter'd none. 

At length in tlie waning tempest's fall, 
As light from the welkin broke, 
A frighten'd man rush'd thro' the hall, 
And words to the Baron spoke. 

" The thunder hath stricken your tree so 

fair, 
" Its roots on green-sward lie," — 
" What tree ? "— " The Elden planted there 
" Some thirty years gone by." 

" And wherefore starest thou on me so, 
" Will) a face so ghastly wild .'' " — 
" White bones are found in the mould below, 
" Like the bones of a stripling child." 

Pale he became as the shrouded dead. 
And his eye-balls fix'd as stone ; 
And down on his bosom dropp'd his head, 
And he utter'd a stifled groan. 

Then from the board, each guest amazed, 
Sprang up, and curiously 
Upon his sudden misery gazed. 
And wonder'd what might be. 

Out spoke the ancient seneschal, 
" I pray ye stand apart, 
" Both gentle dames and nobles all, 
" This grief is at his heart. 

" Go, call St. Cuthbert's monk with speed, 
"And let liim be quickly shriven, 
" And fetch ye a leech for his body's need, 
" To dight him for earth or heaven." 

" No, fetch me a priest," the Baron said, 
In a voice that seem'd uttered with pain ; 
And he shudder'd and shrunk, as he faintly 

bade 
His noble guests remain. 



66'2 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



" Heaven's eye eacli secret deed doth scan, 

Heaven's justice all should fear : 

What 1 confess to the holy man, 
" Botli Heaven and you shall hear." 

And soon St. Cuthbert's monk stood by 
With visage sad but sweet. 
And cast on the Baron a piteous eye. 
And the Uaron knelt low at his feet. 

" O Father ! I have done a deed 
" Which God alone did know ; 
" A brother's blood these hands have shed, 
. " With many a fiend-like blow : 

" For fiends lent strength like a powerful 

charm, 
" And my youthful breast impell'd, 
" And 1 laugh'd to see beneath my arm 
" The sickly stripling quell'd. 

" A mattock from its pit I took , 

" Dug deep for the Elden Tree, 

" And I tempted the youth therein to look 

" Some curious sight to see. 

" The woodmen to their meal were gone, 

" And ere they return'd again, 

" I had planted that tree witii my strength 

alone, 
" O'er the body of the slain. 

" Ah ! gladly smiled my Father then, 

" And seldom he smiled on me, 

" When he heard that my skill, like the skill 

of men, 
" Had planted the Elden Tree. 

" But where v;as his eldest son so dear, 
" Who nearest his heart had been ? 
" Tliey sought him far, they sought him near, 
" But the boy no more was seen. 

" And thus his life and lands he lost, 
" And his Father's love beside : 
" The thouglit tiiat ever rankled most 
" In this heart of secret pride. 

" Ah ! could the partial parent wot 
" The cruel pang he gives, 
" To the child neglected and forgot, 
'• Who under his cold eye lives ! 

" His elder rights did my envy move, 
" These lands and their princely hall ; 
" But it was our Fallier's partial love, 
" 1 envy'd him most of all. 

" Now thirty years have o'er me past, 
" And, to the eye of man, 
" My lot was with the happy cast, 
" My heart it could not scan. 

" Oh ! I have heard in the dead of night, 
" My murther'd brother's groan, 
" And shuddcr'd, as the pale moon-light 
" On *hc mangled body shone. 



" My very miners, pent in gloom, 

•■' Whose toil my coffers storecf, 

" And cursed belike their cheerless doom, 

" Were happier than their lord. 

" O holy man ! my tale is told 
" With pain, with tears, with shame ; 
" May penance hard, may alms of gold, 
" Some ghostly favour claim .'' 

" The knotted scourge shall drink my blood, 
" The earth my bed shall be, 
" And bitter tears my daily food, 
" To earn Heaven's grace for me." 

Now, where that rueful deed was done, 
Endov/'d with rights and lands, 
Its sharp spires bright'ning in the sun, 
A stately Abbey stands. 

And the meekest monk, whose life is there 

Still spent on bended knee. 

Is he who built that Abbey fair, 

And planted the Elden Tree. 



THE GHOST OF FA DON. 

On Gask's deserted ancient hall 
Was twilight closing fast, 
And, in its dismal shadows, all 
Seeni'd lofty, void, and vast. 

All sounds of life, now reft and bare, 
From its walls had pass'd away. 
But the stir of small birds shelter'd there. 
Dull owl, or clatt'ring jay. 

Loop-hole and window, dimly seen. 
With faint light passing through, 
Grew dimmer still, and the dreary scene 
Was fading from the view : 

When the tramphng sound of banded men 
Came from the court without; 
Words of debate and call, and then 
A loud and angry shout. 

But mingled echoes from within 

A mimick mock'ry made, 

And the bursting door, with furious din. 

On jarring hinges bray'd. 

An eager band, press'd rear on van, 
Rush'd in with clam'rous sound. 
And their chief, the goodliest, bravest man 
That e'er trode Scottish ground. 

Then spoke forthwith that leader bold, 
" We war with wayward fate : 
" These walls are bare, the hearth is cold, 
" And all is desolate. 

" With fast unbroke and thirst unslaked, 
" Must we on the hard ground sleep ? 
" Or, like ghosts from vaulted charnel waked 
" Our cheerless vigil keep .' " 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



563 



" Hard hap this day in bloody field, 
*' Ye bravely have sustain'd, 
" And for your pains this dismal bield, 
" And empty board have gain'd. 

" Hie, Malcom, to that varlefs steed, 
" And search if yet remain 
" Some homely store,, but good at need, 
" Spent nature to sustain. 

" Clieer up, my friends ! still, heart in liand. 

"Tho' few and spent we be, 

" We are the pith of our native land, 

" And we shall still be free. 

" Cheer up ! tho' scant and coarse our meal, 
'' In tliis our sad retreat, 
" We'll fill our horn to Scotland's weal, 
" And that will make it sweet." 

Then all, full cheerly, as they could, 

Their willing service lent, 

Some broke the boughs, some heap'd the 

wood, 
Some struck the sparkling flint. 

And a fire they kindled speedily. 
Where the hall's last fire had been, 
And pavement, walls, and rafters high. 
In the rising blaze were seen. 

Red gleam on each tall buttress pour'd 
The lengthen'd hall along. 
And tall and black behind them lower'd 
Their shadows deep and strong. 

The ceiling, ribb'd with massy oak, 
From bick'ring flames below. 
As light and shadow o'er it broke, 
Seem'd wav'ring to and fro. 

Their scanty meal was on the ground. 
Spread by the friendly light, 
And they made the brown-horn circle round, 
As cheerly as they might. 

Some talk of horses, weapons, mail, 
Some of their late defeat. 
By treach'ry caused, and manj^ a tale 
Of Southron spy's retreat. 

'• Aye, well," says one, " ray sinking heart 

" Did some disaster bode, 

" When faithless Fadon's wily art 

" Beguiled us from the road." 

" But well repaid by Providence 
" Are such false deeds we see ; 
" He's had his rightful recompense, 
" And cursed let him be." 

" Oh ! curse him not I I needs must rue 
" That stroke so rashly given : 
" If he to us were false or true, 
" Is known to riffhteous Heaven."' 



So spoke their chief, then silent all 
Remain'd in sombre mood, 
Till they heard a bugle's larum call 
Sound distant thro' the wood. 

" Rouse ye, my friends ! " the chieftain said, 
" That blast, from friend or fee, 
" Comes from the west; thro' Ibrest shade 
"With wary caution go. 

" And bring me tidings-. Speed ye well ! " 
Forth three bold warriors past. 
Tlien from the east with fuller swell 
Was heard the bugle blast. 

Out past three warriors more : then shrill, 
The horn blew from the north, 
And other eager warriors still, 
As banded scouts, went forth. 

Till from their chief each war-mate good 
Had to tlie forest gone. 
And he. who fear'd not flesh and blood. 
Stood by the fire alone. 

He stood, wrapp'd in a musing dream. 
Nor rais'd his drooping head, 
Till a sudden, alter'd, paly gleam 
On all around was spread. 

Such dull, diminish'd, sombre sheen 
From moon eclips'd, by swain 
Belated, or lone herd is seen 
O'er-mantling hill and plain. 

Then to the fitful fire he turn'd, 
Which higher and brighter grew, 
Till the flame like a baleful meteor burn'd 
Of clear sulphureous blue. 

Then wist the chief, some soul unblcst. 
Of spirit of power was near ; 
And his eyes adown the hall he cast. 
Yet nought did there appear. 

But he felt a strange unearthly breath 

Upon the chill air borne. 

And he heard at the gate, like a blast of 

wrath, 
The sound of Fadon's horn. 

Owls, bats, and swallows, flutt'ring, out 
From hole and crevice flew. 
Circling the lofty roof about, 
As loud and long it blew. 

His noble hound sprang from his lair, 
The midnight rouse to greet. 
Then, like a timid trembling hare, 
Couch'd at his master's feet. 

Between his legs his drooping tail, 
Like dog of vulgar race. 
He hid, and with strange piteous wail 
Look'd in his master's face 



5G1 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



The porcli seem'd void, but vapour dim 
Soon fill'd the lowering room, 
TJien was lie aware of a figure grim. 
Approaching thro' the gloom. 

And striding as it onward camCj 
The vapour wore away, 
Till it stood distinctly by the flame, 
Like a form in the noon of day. 

Well Wallace knew that form, that head, 
Tiiat throat unbraced and bare, 
Mark'd deep with streaming circlet red. 
And he utter'd a rapid prayer. 

But when the spectre rais'd its arm. 
And brandish'd its glitt'ring blade, 
Tliat jnoment broke fear's chilly charm 
On noble Wallace laid. 

The threaten'd combat was to him 
Relief; with weapon bare. 
He rush'd upon the warrior grim. 
But his sword shore empty air. 

Then the spectre smiled with a ghastly grin. 
And its warrior-semblance fled. 
And its features grew stony, fix'd, and thin, 
Like the face of the stiffen'd dead. 

The head a further moment crown'd 
The body's stately wreck, 
Shook hideously, and to the ground 
Dropt from the bolter'd neck. 

Back shrunk the noble chief aghast. 
And longer tarried not, 
But quickly to the portal past, 
To shun the horrid spot. 

But in the portal, stiff and tall. 

The apparition stood, 

And Wallace turn'd and cross'd the hall, 

Where entrance to the wood. 

By other door he hoped to snatch. 
Whose pent arch darkly lower'd, 
r>'it there, like sentry on his watch, 
Tlie dreadful phantom tower'd. 

Then up the ruin'd stairs so steep. 
Ho ran with panting breath, 
And from a window — desp'rate leap ! 
Sprang to the court beneath. 

O'er wall and ditch he quickly got, 
Thro' brake and bushy stream, 
When suddenly thro' darkness shot 
A red and lurid gleam. 

He look'd behind, and that lurid light 
Forth from the castle came ; 
Within its circuit thro' the night 
Appear'd an clrich flame. 

Red glow'd each window, slit, and door, 
Like mouths of furnace hot. 



And tint of deepest blackness wore 
The walls and stecpy moat. 

But soon it rose with bright'ning power, 
Till bush and ivy green. 
And wall-flovv(!r, fringing breach and tower. 
Distinctly might be seen. 

Then a spreading blaze with eddying sweep. 
Its spiral surges rcar'd. 
And then aloft on the stately keep, 
Fadon's Ghost appear'd. 

A burning rafter, blazing bright. 

It wielded in its hand ; 

And its warrior-form, of human height, 

Dilated grew, and grand. 

Coped by a curling tawny cloud, 
With tints sulphureous blent. 
It rose with burst of thunder loud, 
And up the welkin went. 

High, high it rose with wid'ning glare, 
Sent far o'er land and main, 
And shut into the lofty air, 
And all was dark again. 

A spell of horror lapt him round, 
Chill'd, motionless, amazed. 
His very pulse of life was bound 
As on black night he gazed. 

Till harness'd warriors' heavy tread. 
From echoing dell arose ; 
" Thank God ! " with utter'd voice, he said, 
'' For here come living foes." 

With kindling soul that brand he drew 
Which boldest Southron fears, 
l>ut soon the friendly call he knew, 
Of his gallant brave compeers. 

With haste each wond'rous tale was told. 
How still, in vain pursuit, 
They foUow'd the horn thro' wood and wold, 
And Wallace alone was mute. 

Day rose ; but silent, sad, and pale. 
Stood the bravest of Scottish race ; 
And each warrior's heart began to quail, 
When he look'd in his. leader's face. 



NOTE. 

Blind Hakry, after relating how Wallace 
and his men having taken shelter in the old 
hall of Gask, and made a meal of what pro- 
visions they iiad with them, were alarmed 
with the sound of a horn, which caused the 
chief to send out into the wood two of his fol- 
lowers at a time, repeatedly, till he was left 
alone, continues thus : — 
" Wlicn that alone AVallace was leaved there 
The awful blast abounded meikle mare ; 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



667 



Then trowed he well they [the enemy] had 

his lodging seen ; 
His sword he drew of noble metal keen, 
Syne forth he went whereat he heard the 

horn ; 
Without the door, Fawdon was him beforn 
As to his sight, his own head in his hand. 
A cross he made, when he saw him so stand: 
At Wallace with the head he swakked there, 
And he in haste soon iiint it by the hair. 
Syne out again at him he could it cast, 
Into his heart he greatly was aghast, 
Right well he trowed it was no sprit of man. 
It was some devil tliat sick malice began. 
He wist not wale there longer for to bide. 
Up thro' the hall thus Wight Wallace can 

glide 
To a close stair, the boards he rave in twin, 
Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. 
Up the water he suddenly could fare, 
Again he blink'd whatpearance he saw there, 
He tliought he saw Fawdon, that ugly Syre 
That hail liall he had set into a fire ; 
A great rafter he had into his hand. 
Wallace as then no longer could he stand." 



A NOVEMBER NIGHT'S TRAVELLER. 

He, who with journey well begun, 
Beneath the beam of morning's sun, 
Stretching his view o'er hill and dale, 
And distant city, ^^thro' its veil 
Of smoke, dark spires andchimnies shewing,) 
O'er harvest-lands with plenty flowing. 
What time the rous'd and busy, meeting 
On King's highway, exchange their greet- 
ing, — 
Feels his clieer'd heart with pleasure beat, 
As on his way he holds. And great 
Delight hath he, who travels late, 
What time the moon doth hold her state 
In the clear sky, while down and dale 
Repose in light so pure and pale I — 
While lake and pool and stream are seen 
Weaving their maze of silv'ry sheen, — 
While cot and mansion, rock and glade, 
And tower and street, in light and shade 
Strongly contrasted, are, I trow ! 
Grander than aught of noon-day show, 
Soothing the pensive mind. 

And yet. 
When moon is dark, and sun is set, 
Not reft of pleasure is the wight, 
Who, in snug chaise, at close of night 
Begins his journey in the dark. 
With crack of whip and ban-dog's bark. 
And jarring wheels, and children bawling. 
And voice of surly ostler, calling 
To post-boy, thro' the mingled din. 
Some message to a neighbring inn. 
Which sound confus'dly in his oar ; 
The lonely way's commencing cheer. 

With dull November's starless sky 
O'er head, his fancy soars not high. 
71 



The carriage lamps a white light throw 

Along the road, and strangely shew 

Familiar things which cheat the eyes, 

Like friends in motley masker's guise. 

" What's that ? or dame, or mantled maid, 

Or hcrdboy gather'd in his plaid. 

Which leans against yon wall his back .' 

No ; 'tis in sooth a tiny stack 

Of turf or peat, or rooty wood, 

For cottage fire the winter's food. — " 

" Ha ! yonder shady nook discovers 

A gentle pair of rustic lovers. 

Out on't ! a pair of harmless calves. 

Thro' straggling bushes seen by halves. — " 

•' What thing of strange unshapely height 

Approaches slowly on the light. 

That like a hunch-back'd giant seems, 

And now is whit'ning in its beams .' 

'Tis but a hind, whose burly back 

Is bearing home a loaded sack. — " 

" What's that, like spots of flecker'd snow, 

Which on the road's wide margin show ? 

'Tis linen left to bleach by night." 

" Gra'mercy on us I see I right.' 

Some witch is casting cantraips there ; 

The linen hovers in the air ! — 

Pooh I soon or late all wonders cease, 

We have but scared a flock of geese. — " 

Thus oft thro' life we do misdeem 

Of things that are not what they seem. 

Ah ! could we there with as slight skathe 

Divest us of our cheated faith .' 

And then belike, when chiming bells 

The near approach of waggon tells, 

He wistful looks to see it come, 

Its bulk emerging from the gloom. 

With dun tarpawling o'er it thrown. 

Like a huge mammoth, moving on. 

But yet more pleas'd, thro' murky air 

He spies the distant bonfire's glare; 

And, nearer to the spot advancing. 

Black imps and goblins round it dancing; 

And, nearer still, distinctly traces 

The featur'd disks of happy faces, 

Grinning and roaring in their glory, 

Like Bacchants wild of ancient story. 

And making murgeons to tlie flame, 

As it were play-mate of their game. 

Full well, I trow, could modern stage 

Such acting for the nonce engage, 

A crowded audience every night 

Would press to see the jovial sight; 

And this, from cost and squeezing free, 

November's nightly trav'llers see. 

Thro' village, lane, or hamlet going. 
The light from cottage window shewing 
Its inmates at their evening fare. 
By rousing fire, and earthenware — 
And pewter trenchers on the shelf,^ — 
Harmless display of worldly pelf! — 
Is transient vision to the eye 
Of hasty trav'ller passing by ; 
Yet much of pleasing import tells. 
And cherish'd in the fancy dwells. 
Where simple innocence and mirth 
Encircle still the cottage hearth. 



5o8 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



Across llio road a fiery glare 
Dotli blacksmith's open forgo declare, 
Where furnace-blast, and nieasur'd din 
Of hammers twain, and all within, — 
'J'he brawny mates tiieir labour plying, 
From heated bar tlio red sparks flying, 
And idle neighbours standing by 
With open mouth and dazzled eye, 
The rough and sooty walls with store 
Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er, — 
An armory of sullied sheen, — 
All momently are heard and seen. 

Nor does he often fail to meet. 
In market town's dark narrow street, 
(Even when the night on pitchy wings 
The sober hour of bed-lime brings,) 
Arauaement. From the alehouse door. 
Having full bravely paid his score. 
Issues the tipsy artisan, 
With tipsier brother of the can, 
And oft to wile him homeward tries 
With coaxing words, so wond'rous wise ! 
The dame demure, from visit late, 
Her lantern borne before in state 
By sloven footboy, paces slow, 
With patten'd Icet and hooded brow. 
Where the seam'd window-board betrays 
Interior light, full closely lays 
The eves-dropper his curious ear, 
Some neighbour's lire-side talk to hear ; 
While, from an upper casement bending, 
A household maid, belike, is sending 
From jug or ewer a slopy shower, 
Tliat makes him homeward fleetly scour. 
From lower rooms fev/ gleams are sent. 
From blazing hearth, thro' chink or rent ;. 
But from the loftier chambers peer 
(Wliere damsels doff their gentle geer, 
For rest pre paring J tapers bright, 
Which give a momentary sight 
Of some fair form witli visage glowing, 
Withloosen'd braids and tresses flowing, 
Who, busied, by the mirror stands, 
With bending head and up-rais'd hands, 
Whose moving shadow strangely falls 
With size enlarged on roof and walls. 
Ah ! lovely are the things, I ween. 
By arrowy Speed's light glam'rie seen ! 
Fancy, so touch'd, will long retain 
That quickly seen, nor seen again. 

Cut now he spies the flaring door 
Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar, 
At which the bowing waiter stands 
To know th' alighting guest's commands. 
A place of bustle, dirt, and din, 
Cursing without, scolding within ; 
Of narrow means and ample boast. 
The trav'ller's stated halting post. 
Where trunks are missing or dcrang'd, 
And parcels lost and horses chang'd. 

Yet this short scene of noisy coil 
But serves our trav'ller as a foil, 
Enhancincr what succeeds, and lending 
A charm to pensive quiet, sending 



To home and friends, left far behind, 

Tlie kindliest musings of his mind; 

Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, 

A dimness o'er the haggard train 

A mood and hour like this will throw, 

As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know. 

Night, loneliness, and motion are 
Afents of power to distance care ; 
To distance, not discard ; for then. 
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men. 
Necessity to act suspended, 
The present, past, and future blended, 
Like figures of a mazy dance, 
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance, 
Till jolting stone, or turnpike gate 
Arouse him from the soothing state. 

And when the midnight hour is past, 

If thro' the night his journey last, 

When still and lonely is the road, 

Nor living creature moves abroad, 

Then most of all, like fabled wizard, 

Night slily dons her cloak and vizard, 

His eyes at ev'ry corner greeting. 

With some new slight of dext'rous cheating, 

And cunningly his sight betrays, 

Ev'n with his own lamps' partial rays. 

Tlie road, that in fair simple day 
Thro' pasture-land or corn-fields lay, 
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen 
Sliirting its weedy margin green, — 
With boughs projecting, interlac'd 
With thorn and briar, distinctly trac'd 
On the deep shadows at their back, 
That deeper sink to pitchy black, 
Appearing oft to Fancy's eye. 
Like woven boughs of tapestrie, — 
Seems nov/ to wind thro' tangled wood, 
Or forest wild, where Robin Hood, 
With all his outlaws, stout and bold, 
In olden days his reign might hold, 
Where vagrant school-boy fears to roam, 
Tlie gypsy's haunt, the woodman's home. 
Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd wall, 
As passing lights upon them fall, 
When favour'd by surrounding gloom, 
The castle's ruin'd state assume. 

The steam}' vapour that proceeds 
From moisten'd hide of weary steeds, 
And high on either hand doth rise. 
Like clouds, storm-drifted, past him flies; 
While liquid mire, by their hoof d feet 
Cast up, adds magic to the cheat, 
Glancing presumptuously before him, 
Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum. 

How many are the subtle ways. 
By which sly Niglit the eye betrays. 
When in her wild fantastic mood. 
By lone and wakeful trav'ller woo'd ! 
Shall 1 proceed :" O no ! for now 
Upon the black horizon's brow 
Appears a line of tawny light ; 
Thy reign is ended, witching Nigiit ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



669 



And soon thy place a wizard elph, 

(But only second to thyself 

In glam'rie's art) ^s'ill quickly take, 

Spreading o'er ineadoW; vale, and brake, 

Her misty shroud of pearly white : — 

A modest, tho' deceitful wight. 

Who in a softer, gentler way, 

Will with the wakeful fancy play, 

When knolls of woods, tiieir bases losing, 

Are islands on a lake reposing, 

And streeted town, of high pretence, 

As rolls away the vapour dense, 

With all its wavy curling billows. 

Is but a row of pollard willows. — 

O no I my trav'ller, still and lone, 

A far fatiguing way hath gone ; 

His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest, 

And folds his arms, and goes to rest. 



SIR MAURICE, 

A BALLAD. 

Sir Maurice was a wealthy lord, 

He liv'd in the north counlrie. 

Well would he cope with foe-man's sword. 

Or the glance of a lady's eye. 

Now all his armed vassals wait, 
A staunch and burly band. 
Before his stately castle's gate, 
Bound for the Holy Land. 

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file. 
Are figur'd ensigns flying; 
Strok'd by their keeper's hand the while, 
Are harness'd chargers neighing. 

And looks of woe, and looks of cheer, 
And looks the two between, 
On many a warlike face appear, 
Where tears have lately been. 

For all they love is left behind ; 
Hope beckons them before : 
Their parting sails spread to the wind, 
Blown from their native shore. 

Then thro' the crowded portal pass'd 
Six goodly knights and tall ; 
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last, 
Was goodliest of them all. 

And proudly rov'd with hasty eye 
O'er all the warlike train ; — 
" Save ye, brave comrades ! prosp'rously, 
Heaven send us o'er the main ! 

" But see I right .' an armed band 
From Mooiham's lordless hall ; 
And he who bears the high command, 
Its ancient seneschal ! 

"Return ; your stately keep defend ; 
Defend your lady's bower. 
Lest rude and lawless hands should rend 
That lone and lovely flower." — 



" God Ti'ill defend our lady dear, 
And we will cross the sea. 
From slav'ry's chain, his lot severe. 
Our noble lord to free."— 

" Nay, nay ! some wand'ring minstrel's 

tongue. 
Hath fram'd a story vain ; 
Thy lord, his liegemen brave among. 
Near Acre's wall was slain." — 

" Nay, good my lord ! for had his life 
Been lost on battle-ground, 
When ceas'd that fell and fatal strife. 
His body had been found." — 

" No faith to such delusions give ; 
His mortal term is past." — 
" Not so ! not so I he is alive. 
And will be found at last ; " 

These latter words right eagerly 
From a slender stripling broke, 
Who stood the ancient warrior by. 
And trembled as he spoke. 

Sir Maurice started at the sound. 

And all from top to toe 

The stripling scann'd, who to tlie ground 

His blushing face bent low. 

" Is this thy kinsman, seneschal.' 
Thine own or thy sister's son .■' 
A gentler page, in tent or hall. 
Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon. — 

" To thine own home return, fair youth ! 
To thine own home return ; 
Give ear to likely, sober truth. 
Nor prudent counsel spurn. 

" War suits thee not, if boy thou art; 
And if a sweeter name 
Befit thee, do not lightly part 
With maiden's honour'd fame." 

He turn'd him from his liegemen all, 
Who round their chieftain press'dj 
His very shadow on the wall 
His troubled mind express'd, 

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast 
He paced to and fro. 
His plumy crest nov/ upward cast 
in air, now drooping low. 

Sometimes like one in frantic mood. 
Short words of sound he utter'd. 
And sometimes, stopping short, he stood. 
As to himself he mutter 'd. 

" A daughter's love, a maiden's pride ! 
And rnay they not agree .■' 
Could man desire alov'lier bride, 
A truer friend than she .' " 

" Down, cursed thought ! a boy's garb 
Betrays not wanton will, 



570 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



Yet, sharper than an arrow's barb, 
That fear might haunt me still." 

He mutter'd long, then to the gate, 
Relurn'd and look'd around, 
But the seneschal and his stripling mate 
Were no where to be found. 

With outward ciieer and inward smart, 
In warlilce fair array, 
Did Maurice witii his bands depart. 
And shoreward bent his way. 

Their stately ship rode near the port, 
The warriors to receive ; 
And there, with blessings kind but short, 
Did friends of friends take leave. 

And soon they saw the crowded strand 
Wear dimly from their view ; 
And soon they saw the distant land, 
A line of hazy blue. 

The white-sail'd ship with fav'ring breeze, 
In all her gallant pride, 
Mov'd like the mistress of the seas, 
That rippled far and wide. 

Sometimes with steady course she went, 
O'er wave and surge careering ; 
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent, 
Her wings the sea-foam sheering. 

Sometimes, with poles and rigging bare, 
She scudded before tlie blast ; 
But safely by the Syrian shore, 
Her anchor droot at last. 

What martial honours Maurice won, 
Join'd with tiie brave and great, 
From the fierce, faithless Saracen, 
1 may not here relate. 

With boldest band on bridge or moat, 
With champion on the plain. 
r th' breach with clust'ring foes he fought, 
Chok'd up with grizly slain. 

Most valiant by tlie valiant styl'd, 
Their praise his deeds proclaim'd, 
And oft his liegemen proudly smil'd 
To hear their leader nam'd. 

But fate will quell the hero's strength, 
And dim the loftiest brow ; 
And this, our noble chief, at length 
Was in the dust laid low. 

He lay the heaps of dead beneath, 
As sunk life's flick'ring flame. 
And thought it was tiie trace of death, 
That o'er his senses came. 

And when again day's blessed liglit 

Did on his vision fall, 

There stood by his side, — a wond'rous sight 

The ancient seneschal. 



He strove, but could not utter word, 
His misty senses fled ; 
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord 
Was bending o'er his bed. 

A third time sank he, as if dead, 
And then, his eye-lids raising, 
He saw a chief with turban'd head. 
Intently on him gazing. 

" The prophet's zealous servant I ; 
His battles I've fought and won ; 
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny, 
But honour Mary's son. 

" And 1 have wedded an English dame, 
And set her parent free ; 
And none, who wears an English name, 
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me. 

" For her dear sake I can endure 
All wrong, all hatred smother ; 
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure. 
As tho' thou wert my brother." — 

" And thou hast wedded an English dame ! ' 
Sir Maurice said no more, 
For o'er his heart soft weakness came. 
He sigh'd and wept full sore. 

And many a dreary day and night 
With the Moslem chief stay'd he, 
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight, 
One glimpse of the fair lady. 

Oft gazed he on her lattice high 
As he paced the court below. 
And turn'd his lisl'ning ear to try 
If word or accent low 

Might haply reach him there ; and oft 
Traversed the garden green, 
Wotting her footsteps small and soft 
Might on the turf be seen. 

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave 
His list'ning ear, who told, 
How he became a wretched slave 
Within that Syrian hold ; 

What time from liegemen parted far, 
U pon the battle field, 
IJy stern and adverse fate of war 
He was obliged to yield : 

And how his daughter did by stealth 
So boldly cross llie sea 
With secret store ol jiather'd wealth, 
To set her father free : 

And how into the foeman's hands 
She'and her people fell ; 
And how (herself in captive bands) 
She sought him m his cell ; 

And but a captive boy appear'd, 
Till grief her sex betray 'd. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



571 



And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd I 
Spoke gently to the maid : 

How for her plighted hand sued he, 
And solemn promise gave, 
Her noble father should be free 
With ev'ry Christian slave; 

(For many there, in bondage kept. 
Felt the stern rule of vice :) 
How, long she ponder'd, sorely wept. 
Then paid the fearful price. — 

A tale which made his bosom thrill. 
His faded e3'es to weep ; 
He, waking, thought upon it still, 
And saw it in his sleep. 

But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray 
Again to battle calls ; 
And Christian pow'rs, in grand array, 
Are near those Moslem walls. 

Sir Maurice heard ; untoward fate ! 
Sad to be thouglit upon : 
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate, 
And bade his guest be gone. 

" Fight thou for faith by thee ador'd ; 
By thee so well maintain'd ! 
But never may this trusty sword 
With blood of thine be stain'd ! " — 

Sir Maurice took him by the hand, 
" God bless thee too," — he cried; 
Then to the nearest Christian band 
With mingl'd feelings hied. 

The battle join'd, with dauntless pride 
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood ; 
And soon the fatal field was dyed 
With many a brave man's blood. 

At length gave way the Moslem force ; 
Their valiant chief was slain ; 
Maurice protected his lifeless corse, 
And bore it from the plain. 

There's mourning in the Moslem halls, 
A dull and dismal sound : 
The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls. 
And safe protection tbund. 

When months were past, the widow'd dame 
Look'd calm and cheerfully ; 
Then Maurice to her presence came, 
And bent him on his knee. 

What words of penitence or suit 
He utter'd, pass we by ; 
The lady wept, awhile was mute, 
Then gave this firm reply : 

" That thou didst doubt my maiden pride 
(A thought that rose and vanish'd 
So fleetingly) I will not chide ; 
'Tis from remembrance banish'd. 



" But thy fair fame, earn'd by that sword, 

Still spotless shall it be : 

1 was the bride of a Moslem lord. 

And will never be bride to thee." 

So firm, tho' gentle, was her look, 
Hope i' the instant fled : 
A solemn, dear farewell he took, 
And from her presence sped. 

And she a plighted nun became, 
God serving day and night ; 
And he of blest Jerusalem 
A brave and zealous knight. 

But that their lot was one of woe, 
Wot ye, because of this 
Their sep'rate single state .' if so, 
In sooth ye judge amiss. 

She tends the helpless stranger's bed, 
For alms her wealth is stor'd ; 
On her meek worth God's grace is shed, 
Man's grateful blessings pour'd. 

He still in warlike mail doth stalk, 
In arms his prowess prove ; 
And oft of siege or battle talk, 
And sometimes of his love. 

She was the fairest of the fair. 

The gentlest of the kind ; 

Search ye the wide world every where, 

Her like ye shall not find. 

She was the fairest, is the best. 

Too good for a monarch's bride ; 

I would not give her in her nun's coif dress'd 

For all her sex beside. 



ADDRESS TO A STEAM-VESSEL. 

Freighted with passengers of every sort, 
A motley throng, thou leav'st the busy port. 
Thy long and ample deck, where scatter'd lie 
Baskets, and cloaks, and shawls of scarlet dye ; 
Where dogs and children through the crowd 

are straying. 
And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing, 
While matron dames to tressel'd seats re- 
pair, — 
Seems, on the gleamy waves, a floating fair. 

Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast, 
Towers from this clust'ring group thy pillar'd 

mast. 
The dense smoke issuing from its narrow vent 
Is to the air in curly volumes sent, 
Which, coiling and uncoiHng on the wind. 
Trails like a writhing serpent far behind. 
Beneath, as each merg'd wheel its motion 

plies. 
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise, 
And, newly parted from the noisy fray. 
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way, 



572 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



Tlien far diverged, in many a welled line 
Oflustro, on the distant surface shine. 

Thou hold'st thy course in independent pride ; 
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide. 
To whate'er point the breeze, inconstant, veer, 
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward 

steer ; 
As if the stroke of some magician's wand 
Had lent thee power the ocean to command. 
What is this power which thus within thee 

lurks, 
And, all unseen, like a mask'd giant works.' 
Ev'n tliat which gentle dames, at morning's 

tea, 
From silver urn ascending, daily see 
With tressy wreathings playing in the air, 
Like the loos'd ringlets of a lady's hair; 
Or rising from the enamell'd cup beneath, 
"With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath : 
That which within the peasant's humble cot 
Comes from th' uncover'd mouth of sav'ry 

pot. 
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare, 
Which cur, and cat, and rosy urchins share : 
That which, all silver'd with the moon's pale 

beam. 
Precedes the mighty Geyser's up-cast stream, 
Yv'hat time, with bellowing din exploded forth, 
It decks the midnight of the frozen north. 
Whilst travellers from their skin-spread 

couches rise 
To gaze upon the sight with wond'ring eyes. 

Thou hast to those " in populous city pent " 
Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent; 
A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroyed. 
Which proves to them a treasure, long en- 
joyed, 
And for this scope to beings erst confin'd, 
I fiiin would hail thee with a grateful mind. 
They who had nought of verdant freshness 

seen 
But suburb orchards choked with colworts 

green, 
Now, seated at their ease may glide along, 
Lochlomond's fair and fairly isles among ; 
Where bushy promontories fondly peep 
At their own beauty in the nether deep, 
O'er droopingbirchand berried row'n that lave 
Their vagrant branches in the glassy wave : 
They, who on higher objects scarce have 

counted 
Than church's spire with gilded vane sur- 
mounted, 
May view, within their near, distinctive ken, 
The rocky summits of the lofty Ben ; 
Or see his purpled shoulders darkly lower 
Through the dim drapery of a summer shower. 
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the 

Clyde 
Mingles his waters with the briny tide. 
Along the lesser Cumra's rocky shore. 
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er, 
Ev'n he, who hath but warr'd with thieving 

cat, 
Or from his cupboard chaccd a hungry rat, 



The city cobbler, — scares the wild sea-mew 
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo ; 
Or valiantly with fearful threat'ning shakes 
His lank and greasy head at Kitty wakes,* 
The eyes that hath no fairer outline seen 
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs be- 
tween, 
Which hard and harshly edge the smokey sky, 
May Aron's softly-vision'd peaks descry. 
Coping with graceful state her steepy sides, 
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly 

glides. 
And interlacing slopes that gently merge 
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge. 
Eyes which admir'd that work of sordid skill, 
The storied structure of a cotton-mill. 
May, wond'ring, now behold the unnumber'd 

host 
Of niarshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast. 
Phalanx on phalanx rang'd with sidelong bend, 
Or broken ranks that to the main descend. 
Like Pharaoh's army, on the Red-sea shore, 
Which deep and deeper went to rise no more. 

Yet, ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee, 
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea. 
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage. 
Thou offspring of that philosophic sage. 
Watt, who in heraldry of science ranks 
With those to whom men owe high meed of 

thanks. 
And shall not be forgotten, ev'n when Fame 
Graves on her annals Davy's splendid 

name ! — 
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair. 
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air 
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue 
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue : 
As the proud swan on summer lake displays, 
With plumage bright'ning in the morning 

rays, 
Her fair pavilion of erected wings, — 
They change, and veer, and turn like living 

things. 

So fairly rigg'd, with shrouding, sails and 

mast, 
To brave with manly skill the winter blast 
Of every clime,— in vessels rigg'd like these 
Did great Columbus cross the western seas, 
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd 
What yet the course of ages had conccal'd. 
In such as these, on high adventure bent 
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades 

went. 
To such as these are hardy seamen found 
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound. 
Boasting, as cans of cheering grog they sip, 
The varied fortunes of "our gallant ship." 
The oflispring these of bold sagacious man 
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began. 

In very truth, compar'd to these thou art 
A daily lab'rer, a mechanic swart, 

* The common or vulgar name of a water-bird 
frequenting that coast. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



673 



In working weeds array'd of homely grey, 
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay. 
To whoso free robes the graceful right is given 
To play and dally with the winds of heaven. 
Beholding thee, the great of other days 
And modern men with all their alter'd ways, 
Across my mind with hasty transit gleam, 
Like fleeting shadows of a fev'rish dream : 
Fitful I gaze with adverse humours teased, 
Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half 
pleased. 



TO MRS. SIDDONS. 

Gifted of Heaven ! who hast, in days gone 

by, 
Moved every heart, delighted every eye. 
While age and youth, of high and low degree, 
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee, 
As in the drama's ever changing scene 
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic 

queen ! 
No barriers there thy fair domain confin'd. 
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human 

mind ; 
And, in the triumph of that witching hour, 
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power. 

Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face. 
Thy stately form and high imperial grace ; 
Thine arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide 

flow, 
And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow, 
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn 
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have born ; 
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection, 
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affec- 
tion; 
The action'd tui'moil of a bosom rending, 
When, pity, love, and honour are contend- 
ing ;— 
Who have beheld all this, right well I ween ! 
A lovely, grand, and wond'rous sight have 
seen. 

Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow, 
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick 

and low. 
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief. 
And tones of high command, full, solemn, 

brief; 
The change of voice and emphasis that threw 
Light on obscurity, and brought to view 
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,* 



Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude 
Common perception, as earth's smallest things 
To size and form the vesting hoarfrost brings. 
Which scem'd as if some secret voice, to clear 
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear, 
And thou had'st even with him communion 

kept. 
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept, 
Whose lines, where Nature's brightest traces 

shine. 
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like 

thine ; — 
They, who have heard all this, have proved 

' full well 
Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell. 

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er 
thee glide. 

And pomp of regal state is cast aside. 

Think not the glory of thy course is spent ; 

There's moon-light radiance to thy evening 
lent. 

Which from the mental world can never fade, 

Till all who've seen thee in the grave are laid. 

Thy graceful form still moves in nightly 
dreams. 

And what thou wert to the wrapt sleeper 
1 seems : 

I While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace 
j Within her curtain'd couch thy wonderous 
I face. 

Yea ; and to many a wight, bereft and lone, 
' In musing hours, though all to thee unknown, 
I Soothing his earthly course of good and ill, 

With all thy potent charm thou actest still. 

I And now in crowded room or rich saloon, 
Tliy stately presence recogniz'd, how soon 
The glance of many an eye is on thee cast, 
In grateful memory of pleasures past! 
Plcas'd to behold thee with becoming grace 
Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place 
(Where, blest by many a heart, long raay'st 

thou stand) 
Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land. 



* Those who have been liappy enough to liear 
Mrs. Siddons read, will readily acknowledge, that 
the discrimination and power with which she 
gave effect to the comic passages of Shakspcare, 
were nearly as remarkable and delightful as those 
which she displayed in passages of a grave or 
tragic character. It is to be regretted, that only 
those who have heard her read, are aware of the 
extent or variety of licr genius, v/hich has on the 
stage been confined almost entirely to tragedy ; 
partly, I believe, from a kind of bigotry on tlie side 
of the public, which inclines it to confine poet, 



A VOLUNTEER SONG. 

Ye, who Britain's soldiers be, 
Freemen, children of the free, 
Who freely come at danger's call 
From shop and palace, cot and hall, 
And brace ye bravely up in warlike gear 
For all that ye hold dear ! 

Blest in your hands be sword and spear ! 
There is no banded Briton here 
On v/hom some fond mate hath not smil'd, 
Or hung in love some lisping cJiild ; 
Or aged parent, grasping his last stay 
With locks of honour'd grey. 



painter, or actor to that department of their art 
in whicli they have first been acknowledged to 
excel, and partly from the cast of her features, 
and the majesty of her figure, being peculiarly 
suited to tragedy. 



574 



'J}.(C: IH 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



Such men behold with steady pride 

The threaten'd tempest gath'ring wide, 

And list, with onward forms inclin'd. 

To sound of foemen on the wind, 

And bravely act, 'mid the wild battle's roar, 

In scenes untried before. 

Let vct'rans boast, as well they may. 
Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day ; 
The gen'rous heart, who takes his stand 
Upon his free and native land , 
Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum 
A fearless man become. 

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour 
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore ! 
If fell or gentle, false or true, 
Let those inquire who wish to sue : 
Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand 
Shall lord it in our land. 

Come then, ye hosts that madly pour 
From wave-toss'd floats npon our shore ! 
An adverse wind or breezeless main, 
Lock'd in their ports our tars detain, 
To waste their wistful spirits, vainly keen, 
Else here ye had not been. 

Yet, ne'crtheless, in strong array, 

Prepare ye for a well-fought day. 

Let banners wave, and trumpets sound. 

And closing cohorts darken round. 

And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar, 

New sound on England's shore ! 

Freemen, children of the free, 

Arc brave alike on land or sea ; * 

And every rood of British ground, 

On which a hostile glave is found, 

Provrs under their firm tread and vig'rous 

stroke, 
A deck of royal oak. 

* It was then frequently said, that our seamen 
excelled our soldiers. 



TO A CHILD. 



It' 



1^ 



Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,' 
And curly pate and merry eye. 
And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 
And soft and fair .' thou urchin sly ! 

What boots it who, with sweet caresses, 
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind .' — 
For thou in every wight that passes. 
Dost now a friendly play-mate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning. 
As fringed eye-lids rise and fall, 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — 
' Tis infantine coquetry all ! 

But far afield thou hast not flown, 
With mocks and threats half-lisp'd half-spok- 
en, 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, 
Of right good-will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 
A mimick warfare with me waging, 
To make, as wily lovers do, 
Thy aft«r kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself. 
And new-cropt daises are thy treasure : 
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, 
To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet for all thy merry look. 
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming. 
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook. 
The weary spell or horn book thumbing. 

Well ; let it be ! thro' weal and woe, 
Thou know'stnot now thy future range ; 
Life is a motlej- shifting show, 
And thou a thing of hope and change. 



EnnATUM. On p. 516, Note xxv., 26 lines from top, for " with becoming occasions,''^ read " xuUh becoming pract o • 
becoming occasions^ 



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